THE LANDSLIDE
LITTLE could be gathered from the expression on Tom Swift’s face as to
the import of the telegraph message he hurriedly read. But then the
young inventor was accustomed to concealing his feelings.
“Tom has a regular sphinx face,” Ned Newton used to say.
However, schooled as Tom was in the art of hiding his emotion when
necessary, it was evident to Mary, at least, that the telegram contained
news of importance, if not of trouble.
“I didn’t know Tom expected any messages here,” said Mrs. Nestor, as she
and her husband stood among the hotel guests that were marveling at the
clever ability shown by the marionette performer and his wife.
“Tom always leaves word at the shop where he can be found,” said Mr.
Swift, as his son was conversing in a low tone with his wife. “So
whether he is here or there they can always communicate with him.”
“They couldn’t do it very well when Tom was on some of his submarine
trips,” suggested Mrs. Nestor, with a smile.
“They did when we were wrecked on Earthquake Island,” her husband
answered, with a chuckle. “Don’t you remember how Tom rigged up a
machine and sent a wireless message that brought us help?” he asked.
“So he did!” agreed Mary’s mother. “But I wonder what’s the matter now?”
“Anything wrong, Tom?” asked his father, with the privilege his
relationship entailed.
“Not so much wrong, as a puzzle,” and Tom laughed a little, but
uneasily. “It’s that dwarf, Chock,” he added.
“What did he do?” asked Mr. Swift quickly.
“Did he try to wreck the dirigible?” Mary wanted to know. For in times
past she knew unscrupulous enemies had taken even such desperate methods
as this to cripple Tom Swift.
“It isn’t so much what he did as what he didn’t do,” said Tom. “He
didn’t stay—quit suddenly, Mr. Jackson wires me. It looks a bit queer,
after he made such an effort to get in the plant.”
“What do you think it means?” Tom’s father asked.
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Did he take away any of your things—I mean secret plans or anything
having to do with the dirigible?”
“I think not, or Jackson would have said so. But I’ll get him on the
long distance wire and find out.”
A little later Tom was talking to his foreman over the telephone and
later still the young inventor told his father the details.
“Queerly enough, it was Koku and the dwarf that clashed,” Tom said. “My
giant made such fun of the little man that Jackson says Chock flew into
a rage, tried to beat Koku up, got well threshed for his pains, and then
quit in a fit of temper.”
“I don’t know that you can blame him,” remarked Mr. Nestor. “Small
people are more touchy about their size than big ones.”
“But is everything all right at the plant, Tom?” Mr. Swift asked, and it
was evident that he was nervously apprehensive.
“Everything is all right as far as they can tell. As I warned Jackson,
they kept a careful watch over the dwarf, though not letting him suspect
it. In spite of Jardine’s letter of introduction, I was suspicious.
However, I don’t believe he got a chance to do anything or take
anything. He just left because Koku got on his nerves, I guess. Well,
I’m glad it was no worse.”
“I am, too,” Mary said. “I’d hate to have anything happen to the big
dirigible, Tom, after all your work.”
“Oh, well, we can’t always have good luck,” Tom said, with a smile. “And
now you must be tired, Mary. What about going upstairs?”
“Yes, it has been rather an exciting day, what with thinking we had come
upon an overturned van of children,” and Mary laughed a little at the
recollection of the marionettes.
“Neat little show he has,” commented Tom. “I’m glad we could help them.
They’re going to travel in their van until cold weather sets in, so
Notine told me. Then they go about in different theaters on a vaudeville
circuit. Well, by this time to-morrow we ought to be at Mt. Camon.”
“I shall love it there,” Mary said, as she and Tom went up in the hotel
elevator to their rooms. “Only I wish you could stay longer.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I get this dirigible off my mind,” he
promised her.
When he had seen Mary safely settled in their quarters, Tom said he
would go downstairs and look over the evening papers.
The marionette show had been put away, the guests who had gathered to
witness the performance had dispersed, but Tom saw the poetical little
Italian puppet master in the smoking room.
“Excuse me, Mr. Swift,” said Pietro Notine, beckoning to Tom to enter
and making room for him on a leather settee. “Did I hear you speak of a
certain dwarf named Chock?”
“Yes,” Tom answered wonderingly. “I engaged a dwarf of that name early
to-day for my plant on my way from home. But I just had a telegram from
my shop superintendent saying that this evening he took French leave, so
to speak—that is, he went away suddenly.”
“I understand, Mr. Swift,” said the Italian, and his voice was grave.
“Perhaps it is as well for you that he did leave, and with no great harm
to anything of yours, as I could not help overhearing you say to your
friends.”
“No, he didn’t take anything or do any damage,” Tom said. “But what do
you mean that it is just as well he has left my plant? What do you know
about this dwarf, Chock?”
“I know little good of him,” was the earnest and almost whispered
answer, as the Italian slid nearer to Tom along the settee. “You have
been a good friend to me. Let me repay you in a small way, by advising
you to have nothing to do with this dwarf!”
“You surprise me!” Tom said. “I had no idea you knew him. Can you tell
me more?”
“Not much more, except to repeat my warning.”
“How did you happen to know Chock? Do you know anything about why he
went to my place with a letter from a man I am building a big dirigible
for?”
“I know nothing of your works, Mr. Swift. I have heard of you, but I
never met you before. Only, if I had a place where ships of the air were
made I would not let this dwarf come near them.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Tom, hardly knowing whether or not to credit the
Italian. “You’ve said either too much or too little. Tell me first how
you know James Chock.”
“He is a clever little dwarf,” was the answer. “Clever, but of such a
character as not to be trusted. He has exhibited himself in many
theaters where my wife and I have also given our marionette shows.”
“I thought he would make a good theater attraction,” Tom said. “But do
you know anything of him personally?”
“To my sorrow,” replied the Italian. “I once engaged him, for, being
small, I thought he could get around easily behind the scenery of our
miniature stage where, as you have seen, we have little room to spare.
For a time Chock did well and helped us. But in the end I had to
discharge him for getting drunk, if you will excuse me, and one night he
tried to set fire to my van and burn it with all my children!”
Tom knew now what the puppet master meant by “children” and was not as
shocked as he would have been at first. But he was sufficiently
impressed as it was.
“You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed.
“Truly, I am telling you,” said Pietro Notine solemnly. “But for my
wife’s alertness, this dwarf would have destroyed all my marionettes.
That is why I say he is vindictive, not to be trusted, and one who must
be watched. You are well rid of him.”
“I should say so!” murmured Tom. “I wonder if Jardine knows that? He
recommended him. I must look farther into this. I’ll write Jackson a
letter and send it by the air mail so he’ll be on the watch to-morrow. I
don’t want to get him out of bed to the telephone again. But I’m obliged
to you for letting me know this, Mr. Notine.”
“The obligation is still on my side,” said the Italian, with a friendly
smile and a characteristic gesture.
He and Tom sat up talking for half an hour longer, but the puppet master
could tell little more of the dwarf than he had already disclosed.
“Only I beg of you to have nothing to do with him,” he concluded.
“I should say not!” agreed Tom.
He wrote the letter to his foreman and went up to where Mary was
sleepily awaiting him. But he said nothing to her about what had been
told him, for he did not want her to worry over what were as yet only
rumor and suspicion, even though very disquieting ones.
“I guess the folks back at the plant can look after things until I
return,” Tom thought.
The puppet folks had departed next morning when Tom and his party were
ready to resume their trip in the House on Wheels, and they were soon
traveling along the road at a fast rate, hoping to reach Mt. Camon
before nightfall.
But just after they left one city, after a bountiful lunch, they came
upon a detour sign, and when they took the cut-off road it was soon
evident that they were not going to make good time, for the highway was
very rough. At last Tom, in despair, stopped at a crossroad hot-dog
stand and asked the young fellow in charge whether there was any other
route to Falkenberg, which was the town they must go through in order to
get on the road to Mt. Camon.
“Why, yes,” said the stand-keeper. “If you go back along this road to
the last turn,” and he indicated, “and bear to the right, you’ll get on
an old logging road that runs along the side of the cliff. That’s a
short cut, but it’s a bad grade.”
“I’ve yet to see the grade my machine won’t take,” Tom said. “But is it
wide enough on the shoulder of the cliff?”
“Oh, yes, two cars can pass, even counting one as wide as yours,” for
Tom’s House on Wheels was not small.
“Then I’m going to take that cut-off,” Tom decided. “If we keep on this
way it means another night at some hotel or sleeping in the House, and I
want to get you settled, Dad, at the Mt. Camon hotel where you can
rest.”
So Tom swung his big machine off the detour and they were soon climbing
up a fairly good road, one that was quite wide enough for any motorist,
but with a very steep grade.
“She’d take it on high if I forced her,” Tom said proudly as he guided
the House around one turn after another. “But we don’t need to. We’ll
soon be there now.”
“I hope so,” murmured Mary. “It seems dangerous.”
Tom laughed at her fears, and went on and on and up and up. They reached
the summit of the cut-off, and swung around a place where the descending
road had been literally dug through a shoulder of a great hill, really a
small mountain. Tom threw the motor into low gear, to save his brakes,
and was congratulating himself on saving time and not meeting with any
traffic when there was a sudden strange rumble and tremor behind him.
“What’s that?” cried Mr. Nestor.
“Another car coming, I guess,” Tom said. “Sounds like a big truck.”
His father glanced back and cried:
“Tom, it’s a landslide! This road is slipping away back of us and we’re
going down with it! It’s a new road and hasn’t been well settled. Look
out for yourself, Tom!”
Alarmed by his father’s excited voice and by a scream of fear from Mrs.
Nestor, Tom shot a look back around the edge of the front seat. He saw
great cracks appearing in the roadway over which he had just traveled.
Looking ahead, he saw a big piece of the towering cliff above him break
off and crash to the road in front with a thundering roar.
There was a sickening lurch, a swaying of the House on Wheels. As Mary
gave a cry of alarm, the whole side of the mountain and Tom’s great
conveyance went down with the landslide.