"If Mr.Sharp only comes back he will hear that, even in the house," thought poor Tom "Maybe Garret or Mrs.Baggert will hear it, too, but they won't know what it means.They'll think I'm just working on the submarine."It seemed several hours to Tom that he pounded out that cry for aid, but, as he afterward learned, it was only a little over an hour.Signal after signal he sent vibrating from the steel sides of the tank.When one arm tired he would use the other.He grew weary, his head was aching, and there was a ringing in his ears; a ringing that seemed as if ten thousand bells were jangling out their peals, and he could barely distinguish his own pounding.
Signal after signal he sounded.It was becoming like a dream to him, when suddenly, as he paused for a rest, he heard his name called faintly, as if far away.
"Tom! Tom! Where are you?"
It was the voice of Mr.Sharp.Then followed the tones of the aged inventor.
"My poor boy! Tom, are you still alive?"
"Yes, dad! In the starboard tank!" the lad gasped out, and then he lost his senses.When he revived he was lying on a pile of bagging in the submarine shop, and his father and the aeronaut were bending over him.
"Are you all right, Tom?" asked Mr.Swift.
"Yes--I--I guess so," was the hesitating answer."Yes," the lad added, as the fresh air cleared his head."I'll be all right pretty soon.Have you seen Andy Foger?""Did he shut you in there?" demanded Mr.Swift.Tom nodded.
"I'll have him arrested!" declared Mr.Swift "I'll go to town as soon as you're in good shape again and notify the police.""No, don't," pleaded Tom."I'll take care of Andy myself.I don't really believe he knew how serious it was.I'll settle with him later, though.""Well, it came mighty near being serious," remarked Mr.Sharp grimly."Your father and I came back a little sooner than we expected, and as soon as I got near the house I heard your signal.I knew what it was in a moment.There were Mrs.Baggert and Garret talking away, and when I asked them why they didn't answer your call they said they thought you were merely tinkering with the machinery.But I knew better.It's the first time we ever had a use for 'forty- seven,' Tom.""And I hope it will be the last," replied the young inventor with a faint smile."But I'd like to know what Andy Foger is doing in this neighborhood."Tom was soon himself again and able to go to the house, where he found Mrs.Baggert brewing a big basin of catnip tea, under the impression that it would in some way be good for his.She could not forgive herself for not having answered his signal, and as for Mr.Jackson, he had started for a doctor as soon as he learned that Tom was shut up in the tank.The services of the medical man were canceled by telephone, as there was no need for him, and the engineer came back to the house.
Tom was fully himself the next day, and aided his father and Mr.Sharpin putting the finishing touches to the Advance.It was found that some alteration was required in the auxiliary propellers, and this, much to the regret of the young inventor, would necessitate postponing the trial a few days.
"But we'll have her in the water next Friday." promised Mr.Swift."Aren't you superstitious about Friday?" asked the balloonist.
"Not a bit of it," replied the aged inventor."Tom," he added, "I wish you would go in the house and get me the roll of blueprints you'll find on my desk."As the lad neared the cottage he saw, standing in front of the place, a small automobile.A man had just descended from it, and it needed but a glance to show that he was Mr.Addison Berg.
"Ah, good morning, Mr.Swift," greeted Mr.Berg."I wish to see your father, but as I don't wish to lay myself open to suspicions by entering the shop, perhaps you will ask him to step here.""Certainly," answered the lad, wondering why the agent had returned.Getting the blueprints, and asking Mr.Berg to sit down on the porch, Tom delivered the message.
"You come back with me, Tom," said his father."I want you to be a witness to what he says.I'm not going to get into trouble with these people."Mr.Berg came to the point at once.
