Victor Appleton (house Name) (10 page)

"I wonder if this is ever going to stop?" he mused. "It looks as if
it was in for an all-day pour, yet we ought only to have a summer
shower by rights."

"But then I guess what I think about it won't influence the weather
man a bit. I might as well make myself comfortable, for I can't do
anything. Let's see. If I get to Fordham by six o'clock I ought to
be able to make Albany by nine, as it's only forty miles. I'll get
supper in Fordham, and push on. That is, I will if the rain stops."

That was the most necessary matter to have happen first, and Tom
arising from his seat strolled over to the front of the shed to look
out.

"I believe it is getting lighter in the west," he told himself.
"Yes, the clouds are lifting. It's going to clear. It's only a
summer shower, after all."

But just as he said that there came a sudden squall of wind and
rain, fiercer than any which had preceded. Tom was driven back to
his seat on the log. It was quite chilly now, and he noticed that
near where he sat there was a big opening in the rear of the shed,
where a couple of boards were off.

"This must be a draughty place in winter," he observed. "If I could
find a drier spot I'd sit there, but this seems to be the best," and
he remained there, musing on many things. Suddenly in the midst of
his thoughts he imagined he heard the sound of an automobile
approaching. "I wonder if those men are coming back here?" he
exclaimed. "If they are—"

The youth again arose, and went to the front of the shed. He could
see nothing, and came back to escape the rain. There was no doubt
but that the shower would soon be over, and looking at his watch,
Tom began to calculate when he might arrive in Albany.

He was busy trying to figure out the best plan to pursue, and was
hardly conscious of his surroundings. Seated on the log, with his
back to the opening in the shed, the young inventor could not see a
figure stealthily creeping up through the wet grass. Nor could he
see an automobile, which had come to a stop back of the horse
shelter—an automobile containing two rain-soaked men, who were
anxiously watching the one stealing through the grass.

Tom put his watch back into his pocket and looked out into the
storm. It was almost over. The sun was trying to shine through the
clouds, and only a few drops were falling. The youth stretched with
a yawn, for he was tired of sitting still. At the moment when he
raised his arms to relieve his muscles something was thrust through
the opening behind him. It was a long club, and an instant later it
descended on the lad's head. He went down in a heap, limp and
motionless.

Through the opening leaped a man. He bent over Tom, looked anxiously
at him, and then, stepping to the place where the boards were off
the shed, he motioned to the men in the automobile.

They hurried from the machine, and were soon beside their companion.

"I knocked him out, all right," observed the man who had reached
through and dealt Tom the blow with the club.

"Knocked him out! I should say you did, Featherton!" exclaimed one
who appeared better dressed than the others. "Have you killed him?"

"No; but I wish you wouldn't mention my name, Mr. Appleson. I—I
don't like—"

"Nonsense, Featherton. No one can hear us. But I'm afraid you've
done for the chap. I didn't want him harmed."

"Oh, I guess Featherton knows how to do it, Appleson," commented the
third man. "He's had experience that way, eh, Featherton?"

"Yes, Mr. Morse; but if you please I wish you wouldn't mention—"

"All right, Featherton, I know what you mean," rejoined the man
addressed as Morse. "Now let's see if we have drawn a blank or not.
I think he has with him the very thing we want,"

"Doesn't seem to be about his person," observed Appleson, as he
carefully felt about the clothing of the unfortunate Tom.

"Very likely not. It's too bulky. But there's his motor-cycle over
there. It looks as if what we wanted was on the back of the saddle.
Jove, Featherton, but I think he's coming to!"

Tom stirred uneasily and moved his arms, while a moan came from
between his parted lips.

"I've got some stuff that will fix him!" exclaimed the man addressed
as Featherton, and who had been operating the automobile. He took
something from his pocket and leaned over Tom. In a moment the young
inventor was still again.

"Quick now, see if it's there," directed Morse, and Appleson hurried
over to the machine.

"Here it is!" he called. "I'll take it to our car, and we can get
away."

"Are you going to leave him here like this?" asked Morse.

"Yes; why not?"

"Because some one might have seen him come in here, and also
remember that we, too, came in this direction."

"What would you do?"

"Take him down the road a way and leave him. We can find some shed
near a farmhouse where he and his machine will be out of sight until
we get far enough away. Besides, I don't like to leave him so far
from help, unconscious as he is."

"Oh, you're getting chicken-hearted," said Appleson with a sneer.
"However, have your way about it. I wonder what has become of Jake
Burke? He was to meet us in Centreford, but he did not show up."

"Oh, I shouldn't be surprised if he had trouble in that tramp rig he
insisted on adopting. I told him he was running a risk, but he said
he had masqueraded as a tramp before."

"So he has. He's pretty good at it. Now, Simpson, if you will—"

"Not Simpson! I thought you agreed to call me Featherton,"
interrupted the chauffeur, turning to Morse and Appleson.

"Oh, so we did. I forgot that this lad met us one day, and heard me
call you Simpson," admitted Morse. "Well, Featherton it shall be.
But we haven't much time. It's stopped raining, and the roads will
soon be well traveled. We must get away, and if we are to take the
lad and his machine to some secluded place, we'd better be at it. No
use waiting for Burke. He can look out after himself. Anyhow, we
have the model now, and there's no use in him hanging around Swift's
shop, as he intended to do, waiting for a chance to sneak in after
it. Appleson, if you and Simpson—I mean Featherton—will carry
young Swift, I'll shove his wheel along to the auto, and we can put
it and him in."

The two men, first looking through the hole in the shed to make sure
they were not observed, went out, carrying Tom, who was no light
load. Morse followed them, pushing the motor-cycle, and carrying
under one arm the bundle containing the valuable model, which he had
detached.

"I think this is the time we get ahead of Mr. Swift," murmured
Morse, pulling his black mustache, when he and his companions had
reached the car in the field. "We have just what we want now."

"Yes, but we had hard enough work getting it," observed Appleson.
"Only by luck we saw this lad come in here, or we would have had to
chase all over for him, and maybe then we would have missed him.
Hurry, Simpson—I mean Featherton. It's getting late, and we've got
lots to do."

The chauffeur sprang to his seat, Appleson taking his place beside
him. The motor-cycle was tied on behind the big touring car, and
with the unconscious form of Tom in the tonneau, beside Morse, who
stroked his mustache nervously, the auto started off. The storm had
passed, and the sun was shining brightly, but Tom could not see it.

Several hours later Tom had a curious dream. He imagined he was
wandering about in the polar regions, and that it was very cold. He
was trying to reason with himself that he could not possibly be on
an expedition searching for the North Pole, still he felt such a
keen wind blowing over his scantily-covered body that he shivered.
He shivered so hard, in fact, that he shivered himself awake, and
when he tried to pierce the darkness that enveloped him he was
startled, for a moment, with the idea that perhaps, after all, he
had wandered off to some unknown country.

For it was quite dark and cold. He was in a daze, and there was a
curious smell about him—an odor that he tried to recall. Then, all
at once, it came to him what it was—chloroform. Once his father had
undergone an operation, and to deaden his pain chloroform had been
used.

"I've been chloroformed!" exclaimed the young inventor, and his
words sounded strange in his ears. "That's it. I've met with an
accident riding my motor-cycle. I must have hit my head, for it
hurts fearful. They picked me up, carried me to a hospital and have
operated on me. I wonder if they took off an arm or leg? I wonder
what hospital I'm in? Why is it so dark and cold?"

As he asked himself these questions his brain gradually cleared from
the haze caused by the cowardly blow, and from the chloroform that
had been administered by Featherton.

Tom's first act was to feel first of one arm, then the other. Having
satisfied himself that neither of these members were mutilated he
reached down to his legs.

"Why, they're all right, too," he murmured. "I wonder what they did
to me? That's certainly, chloroform I smell, and my head feels as if
some one had sat on it. I wonder—"

Quickly he put up his hands to his head. There appeared to be
nothing the matter with it, save that there was quite a lump on the
back, where the club had struck.

"I seem to be all here," went on Tom, much mystified. "But where am
I? That's the question. It's a funny hospital, so cold and dark—"

Just then his hands came in contact with the cold ground on which he
was lying.

"Why, I'm outdoors!" he exclaimed. Then in a flash it all came back
to him—how he had gone to wait under the church shed until the rain
was over.

"I fell asleep, and now it's night," the youth went on. "No wonder I
am sore and stiff. And that chloroform—" He could not account for
that, and he paused, puzzled once more. Then he struggled to a
sitting position. His head was strangely dizzy, but he persisted,
and got to his feet. He could see nothing, and groped around In the
dark, until he thought to strike a match. Fortunately he had a
number in his pocket. As the little flame flared up Tom started in
surprise.

"This isn't the church shed!" he exclaimed. "It's much smaller! I'm
in a different place! Great Scott! but what has happened to me?"

The match burned Tom's fingers and he dropped it. The darkness
closed in once more, but Tom was used to it by this time, and
looking ahead of him he could make out that the shed was an open
one, similar to the one where he had taken shelter. He could see the
sky studded with stars, and could feel the cold night wind blowing
in.

"My motor-cycle!" he exclaimed in alarm. "The model of dad's
invention—the papers!"

Our hero thrust his hand into his pocket. The papers were gone!
Hurriedly he lighted another match. It took but an instant to glance
rapidly about the small shed. His machine was not in sight!

Tom felt his heart sink. After all his precautions he had been
robbed. The precious model was gone, and it had been his proposition
to take it to Albany in this manner. What would his father say?

The lad lighted match after match, and made a rapid tour of the
shed. The motor-cycle was not to be seen. But what puzzled Tom more
than anything else was how he had been brought from the church shed
to the one where he had awakened from his stupor.

"Let me try to think," said the boy, speaking aloud, for it seemed
to help him. "The last I remember is seeing that automobile, with
those mysterious men in, approaching. Then it disappeared in the
rain. I thought I heard it again, but I couldn't see it. I was
sitting on the log, and—and—well, that's all I can remember. I
wonder if those men—"

The young inventor paused. Like a flash it came to him that the men
were responsible for his predicament. They had somehow made him
insensible, stolen his motor-cycle, the papers and the model, and
then brought him to this place, wherever it was. Tom was a shrewd
reasoner, and he soon evolved a theory which he afterward learned
was the correct one. He reasoned out almost every step in the crime
of which he was the victim, and at last came to the conclusion that
the men had stolen up behind the shed and attacked him.

"Now, the next question to settle," spoke Tom, "is to learn where I
am. How far did those scoundrels carry me, and what has become of my
motor-cycle?"

He walked toward the point of the shed where he could observe the
stars gleaming, and there he lighted some more matches, hoping he
might see his machine. By the gleam of the little flame he noted
that he was in a farmyard, and he was just puzzling his brain over
the question as to what city or town he might be near when he heard
a voice shouting:

"Here, what you lightin' them matches for? You want to set the place
afire? Who be you, anyhow—a tramp?"

It was unmistakably the voice of a farmer, and Tom could hear
footsteps approaching on the run.

"Who be you, anyhow?" the voice repeated. "I'll have the constable
after you in a jiffy if you're a tramp."

"I'm not a tramp," called Tom promptly. "I've met with an accident.
Where am I?"

"Humph! Mighty funny if you don't know where you are," commented the
farmer. "Jed, bring a lantern until I take a look at who this is."

"All right, pop," answered another voice, and a moment later Tom saw
a tall man standing in front of him.

"I'll give you a look at me without waiting for the lantern," said
Tom quickly, and he struck a match, holding it so that the gleam
fell upon his face.

"Salt mackerel! It's a young feller!" exclaimed the farmer. "Who be
you, anyhow, and what you doin' here?"

"That's just what I would like to know," said Tom, passing his hand
over his head, which was still paining him. "Am I near Albany?
That's where I started for this morning."