Читать книгу Tom Swift and his Great Oil Gusher or The Treasure of Goby Farm - Howard R Garis - Страница 4

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Tom Swift and the two with him stared for a moment in consternation.

“It isn’t the woods on fire,” cried Tom. “They’re too green for that; and besides we had a drenching storm two days ago. It’s the plane that’s blazing.”

“And that poor fellow perhaps is being burned to death!” cried Ned. “Hurry, Tom; hurry!”

There was no need for urging. Tom threw caution to the winds and tore along at a reckless pace in the direction of the flames.

As he turned a bend in the trail, an exclamation escaped him. Right in the road was a small tree which had been blown down. It lay directly in front of him, completely blocking the road.

He had scarcely time to stop before colliding with it. Then with one accord all leaped from the car and tugged desperately at the tree to try to move it to one side far enough to permit the car to pass.

Although they put forth almost superhuman efforts, they soon found that their strength was unequal to the task. Tom was the first to realize it.

“No use, fellows,” he panted. “We’ll have to leave the car here and make the rest of the way on foot.”

They clambered over the tree and started running with all their might in the direction of the blazing plane.

And while, with their hearts full of apprehension and their lungs strained almost to bursting, they are hastening to the rescue, it may be well for the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this series to tell who Tom Swift was and what had been his adventures up to the time this story opens.

Tom, now about twenty-one years old, lived in the town of Shopton, a small inland city on the shores of Lake Carlopa. His father was Barton Swift, an inventor of note. Tom had grown up among wholesome surroundings and developed into a clear-cut, athletic young fellow, a general favorite among his associates. He was frank, courageous and good-natured, never looking for trouble but never stepping aside when it turned up.

Tom may have inherited the inventive genius of his father, or it may have been the force of example, but from his earliest years he displayed a marvelous aptitude in all things scientific and mechanical. A mere glance at any mechanical contrivance, from a watch to a steam engine, generally sufficed to give him a pretty clear idea of its working. But this was not enough. He saw not only its good qualities, but also its defects, and his active mind busied itself at once in trying to devise improvements. His success in this had been phenomenal. From his first venture into the realm of invention described in the opening volume of the series, entitled “Tom, Swift and His Motor Cycle,” his progress had been rapid. His ambition grew from what it fed upon, and the improvements that he added to the motor cycle were duplicated by those described in later volumes bearing on airships, submarines, rifles, cameras, searchlights, cannon and a host of other things that became famous. His friends described him as a “wizard.” But Tom, who was as modest as he was ingenious, never thought of himself in that light. He was unspoiled by praise and kept on devoting himself to his chosen vocation. Like Alexander, he was always looking for new worlds to conquer.

The work that he had done naturally brought with it large financial rewards. His activities resulted in the formation of the Swift Construction Company, which, starting on a small scale, had attained great proportions and formed the leading industry of the town of Shopton. In the development of the business Tom had been greatly aided by the financial ability of Ned Newton, his closest friend. Ned had been a clerk in one of the Shopton banks, but had left this position to become treasurer of the Swift concern. He was a genius in business management, and Tom was able with an easy mind to leave all financial details to Ned while he devoted himself to his inventions. It was an ideal combination. They were fortunate, too, in having at the head of the mechanical department Garret Jackson, a thorough mechanic himself and skilled in handling the large body of workmen on the Swift payroll.

Tom did not care overmuch for money, but of course he was glad that the business was prospering, especially as at the present time he was deeply interested in a charming young lady, Miss Mary Nestor. The attachment between them had grown rapidly of late and had been increased on Mary’s part by a great service that Tom had recently done in rescuing her father from an iceberg, on which he had been marooned while in a search for health. What peril was involved in that rescue and how Tom’s courage and ingenuity prevailed, are thrillingly told in the preceding volume of this series entitled: “Tom Swift and His Flying Boat; or, The Castaways of the Giant Iceberg.”

Now to return to the three who were hastening in the direction of the burning plane.

It must be confessed that they had little hope of being of use. The chances were great that the aviator had not survived the fall. Still, there was a chance, and that thought added wings to their feet as they tore through the forest.

Tom was first on the scene, with Ned close at his heels and Jackson bringing up the rear.

Resting on two trees was most of what remained of the doomed plane. It was still blazing so fiercely that they could not approach it closely. The motor had fallen through the trees to the ground, together with part of the wreckage of the plane.

There was nothing to be seen of the aviator, and they scanned the ground fearfully. Their first thought was that he must be lying crushed under the heavy motor. That fate, tragic as it was, would be better than being burned to death.

Suddenly, Tom, who had been examining all the trees that stood outlined in that great zone of light, gave a startled exclamation.

“There he is!” he cried, as he pointed to the branches of a tree fully fifty feet distant. “There, in the crotch of those two big branches.”

The others looked and saw the body of a man at the place indicated, about twenty feet from the ground. His torn clothing had caught in the branches, and big boughs supported the greater part of his weight. There was no sign of life as they gazed at the crumpled mass.

“He’s been thrown or jumped from the plane!” exclaimed Tom, as all three rushed to the tree. “Here, Ned, give me your back and we’ll get him down.”

Ned bent his back, and Tom, with Jackson’s assistance, got up on it. Even then, with his six feet of height and his long reach, he found that he was several feet short of the lowest branch.

“Hold steady, Ned, I’m going to jump,” he warned.

Ned braced himself, and Tom gave a mighty leap, just clutching the bough with his out-stretched hands. It was enough, however, and he swung his legs up, and in a moment was in a sitting position.

“Now, Ned, you do the same thing,” he directed. “I won’t be able to bring him down alone. You stand by, Jackson, when we lower him. In the meantime run back to the car and get the coil of rope that’s under the seat. And bring the first-aid kit along with you at the same time.”

Jackson waited only long enough to enable Ned to get up in the same way Tom had done, and then set off on a run to the car.

Tom and Ned made their way up through the branches until they were close to the unfortunate victim of the disaster. They had to proceed with caution for fear the swaying of the branches might release the body and let it fall to the ground. But at last they were in a position where they could see the man’s face.

It was a youthful face, that of a young man apparently no older than themselves. It was badly scratched and bruised, and blood was flowing from several wounds.

Tom reached under the torn coat and placed his hand on the man’s heart.

“Still beating!” he exclaimed joyfully. “Not very strongly, but he’s alive and he’s got a fighting chance. Now, Ned, lend a hand and we’ll get him down from here in a jiffy.”

That, however, was more easily said than done. It was a difficult thing to release the body from the twigs and branches that held the clothing. Then, too, each of them could use only one hand to support the weight of the body, while with the other they must cling for support to the branches. It was a task that taxed their strength to the utmost.

Luckily they were both stalwart and vigorous and in superb physical condition, and the fearful extremity in which their helpless burden lay called into play the reserve strength that can usually be depended on to meet a great emergency. Slowly and painfully they made their tortuous way down among the branches, until they rested on the lowest bough, one that seemed strong enough to support a regiment.

They paused there a moment to take breath. Jackson, in the meantime, had returned with a stout coil of rope. He tossed one end of it up to Tom. The latter caught it and made a loop which he fastened securely under the arms of the unconscious youth. Then, with Ned also holding on, he slowly paid it out until the aviator was within Jackson’s reach. The moment this was done, Tom and Ned dropped to the ground, and together they unfastened the rope and laid the airman gently on the grass.

As they did so, the youth gave a groan and opened his eyes. He looked vacantly at the faces above him and then drifted again into unconsciousness.

There was a brook at a little distance, and they carried him to the bank. Then, while Ned and Jackson bathed his face and wrists with the cool water, Tom ran his hands over the body. He had had a good deal of experience with accidents, and this now stood him in stead. His face was grave when he had finished.

“His right leg is broken, and a couple of ribs as well,” he announced. “He may have internal injuries also, but it will take a doctor to tell that. Hand me over that first-aid kit and I’ll make a splint for the leg. Then we’ll get him to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Tom worked skillfully and rapidly and soon had the temporary splint in place. The pain involved in setting the broken bone roused the wounded aviator from his oblivion. Again he opened his eyes, but this time there was less of vacancy in them. He tried to speak, but though his lips moved, no sound issued from them.

Tom bent over him.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said gently. “But you’re with friends. If you tell us what your name is and where you live we’ll try to get in touch with your people.”

The young man muttered something that was unintelligible.

“Try once more,” urged Tom kindly.

In a little louder tone and evidently with an effort of will, the injured youth said something that sounded like Hillobie.

“Did you say Hillobie?” asked Tom. “Just nod your head, either yes or no. Don’t try to speak.”

But the effort had been too much for the young man’s feeble strength, and he closed his eyes and lay motionless.

“We’ll have to let it go at that,” said Tom, rising to his feet. “Perhaps the hospital people will find papers on him that will give a clue to his identity. We’d better not wait to look for any. Now let’s get him to the car.”