Tom Swift and His Motor-Cycle | Page 3

them. I do not want that to
happen in this case. Another thing; don't speak about my new invention
in Merton's shop when you stop for the bolts."
"Why, do you think he gave out information concerning your work?"
"Well, not exactly. He might not mean to, but he told me the other day
that some strangers were making inquiries of him, about whether he
ever did any work for me."
"What did he tell them?"
"He said that he occasionally did, but that most of my inventive work
was done in my own shops, here. He wanted to know why the men
were asking such questions, and one of them said they expected to open
a machine shop soon, and wanted to ascertain if they might figure on
getting any of my trade. But I don't believe that was their object."
"What do you think it was?"
"I don't know, exactly, but I was somewhat alarmed when I heard this
from Merton. So I am going to take no risks. That's why I send this
letter to Mansburg. Don't lose it, and don't forget about the bolts. Here
is a blue-print of them, so you can see if they come up to the
specifications."
Tom rode off on his wheel, and was soon spinning down the road.
"I wonder if I'll meet Andy Foger and his cronies again?" he thought.
"Not very likely to, I guess, if they're off on a tour. Well, I'm just as
well satisfied. He and I always seem to get into trouble when we meet."
Tom was not destined to meet Andy again that day, but the time was to

come when the red-haired bully was to cause Tom Swift no little
trouble, and get him into danger besides. So Tom rode along, thinking
over what his father had said to him about the letter he carried.
Mr. Barton Swift was a natural inventor. From a boy he had been
interested in things mechanical, and one of his first efforts had been to
arrange a system of pulleys, belts and gears so that the windmill would
operate the churn in the old farmhouse where he was born. The fact that
the mill went so fast that it broke the churn all to pieces did not
discourage him, and he at once set to work, changing the gears. His
father had to buy a new churn, but the young inventor made his plan
work on the second trial, and thereafter his mother found butter-making
easy.
From then on Barton Swift lived in a world of inventions. People used
to say he would never amount to anything, that inventors never did, but
Mr. Swift proved them all wrong by amassing a considerable fortune
out of his many patents. He grew up, married and had one son, Tom.
Mrs. Barton died when Tom was three years old, and since then he had
lived with his father and a succession of nurses and housekeepers. The
last woman to have charge of the household was a Mrs. Baggert, a
motherly widow, and she succeeded so well, and Tom and his father
formed such an attachment for her, that she was regarded as a fixture,
and had now been in charge ten years.
Mr. Swift and his son lived in a handsome house on the outskirts of the
village of Shopton, in New York State. The village was near a large
body of water, which I shall call Lake Carlopa, and there Tom and his
father used to spend many pleasant days boating, for Tom and the
inventor were better chums than many boys are, and they were often
seen together in a craft rowing about, or fishing. Of course Tom had
some boy friends, but he went with his father more often than he did
with them.
Though many of Mr. Swift's inventions paid him well, he was
constantly seeking to perfect others. To this end he had built near his
home several machine shops, with engines, lathes and apparatus for
various kinds of work. Tom, too, had the inventive fever in his veins,

and had planned some useful implements and small machines.
Along the pleasant country roads on a fine day in April rode Tom Swift
on his way to Mansburg to register the letter. As he descended a little
hill he saw, some distance away, but coming toward him, a great cloud
of dust.
"Somebody must be driving a herd of cattle along the road," thought
Tom. "I hope they don't get in my way, or, rather, I hope I don't get in
theirs. Guess I'd better keep to one side, yet there isn't any too much
room."
The dust-cloud came nearer. It was so dense that whoever or whatever
was making it could not he distinguished.
"Must be