Tom Swift in the City of Gold | Page 2

can make it out now all right."
"Well, where, for the love of my old geography, is Gumba Twamba?"
asked the lad with a laugh.
"You've got me, Tom. Must be in Sweden, or Holland, or some of those
foreign countries. I don't often handle letters from there, so I can't say.
Why don't you open your letter and find out who its from?"

"That's what I ought to have done at first." Quickly Tom ripped open
the much worn and frayed envelope, through the cracks of which some
parts of the letter already could be seen, showing that it had traveled
many thousand miles before it got to the village of Shopton, in New
York State.
"Well, I've got to be traveling on," remarked the postman, as Tom
started to read the mysterious letter. "I'm late as it is. You can tell me
the news when I pass again, Tom."
But the young inventor did not reply. He was too much engaged in
reading the missive, for, no sooner had he perused the first few lines
than his eyes began to open wide in wonder, and his manner plainly
indicated his surprise. He read the letter once, and then over again, and
when he had finished it a second time, he made a dash for the house.
"I say dad!" cried Tom. "This is great! Great news here! Where are you,
dad? Say, Mrs. Baggert," he called as he saw the motherly housekeeper,
"where's father? I've got great news for him? Where is he?"
"Out in the shop, I think. I believe Mr. Damon is with him."
"And blessing everything as usual, from his hat to his shoe laces, I'll
wager," murmured Tom as he made his war to the shop where his
father, also an inventor like himself, spent much of his time. "Well,
well, I'm glad Mr. Damon is here, for he'll be interested in this."
Tom fairly rushed into the building, much of the space of which, was
taken up by machinery, queer tools and odd devices, many of them
having to do with the manufacture of aeroplanes, for Tom had as many
of them as some people have of automobiles.
"I say, dad!" cried Tom, waving the letter above his head, "what do you
think of this? Listen to--"
"Easy there now, Tom! Easy, my boy, or you'll oblige me to do all my
work over again," and an aged man, beside whom a younger one was
standing, held up a hand of caution, while with the other hand he was

adjusting some delicate piece of machinery.
"What are you doing?" demanded the son.
"Bless my scarf pin!" exclaimed the other man--Mr. Wakefield
Damon-- "Bless my rubbers, Tom Swift! What SHOULD your father
be doing but inventing something new, as he always is. I guess he's
working on his new gyroscope, though it is only a guess, for he hasn't
said ten words to me since I came out to talk to him. But that's like all
inventors, they--"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Damon," spoke Mr. Swift with a smile, "I'm
sure--"
"Say, can't you listen to me for five minutes?" pleaded Tom. "I've got
some great news--simply great, and your gyroscope can wait, dad.
Listen to this letter," and he prepared to read it.
"Who's it from?" asked Mr. Damon.
"Mr. Jacob Illingway, the African missionary whom you and I rescued,
together with his wife, from the red pigmies!" cried Tom. "Think of
that! Of all persons to get a letter from, and SUCH a letter! SUCH
news in it. Why, it's simply great! You remember Mr. and Mrs.
Illingway; don't you Mr. Damon? How we went to Africa after
elephant's tusks, with Mr. Durban the hunter, and how we got the
missionaries away from those little savages in my airship--don't you
remember?"
"I should say I did!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "Bless my watch chain--
but they were regular imps--the red Pygmies I mean, not the
missionaries. But what is Mr. Illingway writing to you about now, Tom?
I know he sent you several letters since we came back from Africa.
What's the latest news?"
"I'll tell you," replied the young inventor, sitting down on a packing
box. "It would take too long to read the letter so I'll sum it up, and you
can go over it later."

"To be brief, Mr. Illingway tells of a wonderful golden image that is
worshiped by a tribe of Africans in a settlement not far from Gumba
Twamba, where he is stationed. It's an image of solid gold--"
"Solid gold!" interrupted Mr. Swift.
"Yes, dad, and about three feet high," went on Tom, referring to the
letter to make sure. "It's heavy, too, no hollows in it, and these Africans
regard it as a god. But that's not