approximately nine hundred miles. But as the Bellaconda was a coasting steamer, and would make several stops on her trip, it would be more than a week before our friends would land at Callao, then to proceed to Lima, where they expected to remain a day or so before striking into the interior to where the tunnel was being bored through the mountain.
The first day was spent in getting settled, becoming used to their new surroundings, finding their places and neighbors at table, and in making acquaintances. There were some interesting men and women aboard the Bellaconda, and Tom Swift, Mr. Damon and Mr. Titus soon made friends with them. This usually came about through the medium of Koku, the giant. Persons seeing him would inquire about him, and when they learned he was Tom Swift’s helper it was an easy topic with which to open conversation.
Tom told, modestly enough, how he had come to get Koku in his escape from captivity, but Mr. Damon was not so simple in describing Tom’s feats, so that before many days had passed our hero found himself regarded as a personage of considerable importance, which was not at all to his liking.
“But bless my fountain pen!” cried Mr. Damon, When Tom objected to so much notoriety. “You did it all; didn’t you?”
“Yes, I know. But these people won’t believe it.”
“Oh, yes they will!” said the odd man. “I’ll take good care that they believe it.”
“If any one say it not so, you tell me!” broke Koku, shaking his huge fist.
“No, I guess I’d better keep still,” said Tom, with a laugh.
The weather was pleasant, if we except a shower or two, and as the vessel proceeded south, tropical clothing became the order of the day, while all who could, spent most of their time on deck under the shade of awnings.
“Did you ever hear anything more of that fellow, Waddington?” asked Tom of Mr. Titus one day.
“Not a thing. He seems to have dropped out of sight.”
“And are your rivals, Blakeson & Grinder, making any trouble?”
“Not that I’ve heard of. Though just what the situation may be down in Peru I don’t know. I fancy everything isn’t going just right or my brother would not be so anxious for me to come on in such a hurry.”
“Do you anticipate any real trouble?”
Mr. Titus paused a moment before answering.
“Well, yes,” he said, finally, “I do!”
“What sort?” asked Tom.
“That I can’t say. I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Tom. You know I told you at the time that we were in for difficulties. I didn’t want you to go into this thing blindly.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of trouble,” Tom hastened to assure his friend. “I’ve had more or less of it in my life, and I’m willing to meet it again. Only I like to know what kind it is.”
“Well, I can’t tell you–exactly,” went an the tunnel contractor. “Those rivals of ours, Blakeson & Grinder, are unscrupulous fellows. They feel very bitter about not getting the contract, I hear. And they would be only too glad to have us fail in the work. That would mean that they, as the next lowest bidders, would be given the job. And we would have to make up the difference out of our pockets, as well as lose all the work we have, so far, put on the tunnel.”
“And you don’t want that to happen!”
“I guess not, my boy! Well, it won’t happen if we get there in time with this new explosive of yours. That will do the business I’m sure.”
“I hope so,” murmured Tom. “Well, we’ll soon see. And now I think I’ll go and write a few letters. We are going to put in at Panama, and I can mail them there.”
Tom started for his stateroom, and rapidly put his hand in the inner pocket of his coat. He drew out a bundle of letters and papers, and, as he looked at them, a cry of astonishment came from his lips.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Titus.
“Matter!” cried Tom. “Why here’s a letter from Mary–from Mr. Nestor,” he went on, as he scanned the familiar handwriting. “I never opened it! Let’s see–when did I get that?”
His memory went back to the day of his departure from Shopton when he had sent Mary the gift, and he recalled that the letter had arrived just as he was getting into the automobile.
“I stuck it in my pocket with some other mail,” he mused, “and I never thought of it again until just now. But this is the first time I’ve worn this coat since that day. A letter from Mr. Nestor! Probably Mary wrote, thanking me for the box, and her father addressed the envelope for her. Well, let’s see what it says.”
Tom retired to the privacy of his stateroom to read the note, but he had not glanced over more than the first half of it before he cried out:
“Dynamite! Great Scott! What does this mean? ‘Gross carelessness! Poor idea of a joke! No person with your idea of responsibility will ever be my son-in-law!’ Box labeled ‘open with care!’ Why–why–what does it all mean?”
Tom read the letter over again, and his murmurs of astonishment were so loud that Mr. Damon, in the next room, called out:
“What’s the matter, Tom?” Get bad news?”
“Bad news? I should say so! Mary–her father–he forbids me to see her again. Says I tried to dynamite them all–or at least scare them into believing I was going to. I can’t understand it!”
“Tell me about it, Tom,” suggested Mr. Damon, coming into Tom’s stateroom. “Bless my gunpowder keg! what does it mean?”
Thereupon Tom told of having purchased the gift for Mary, and of having, at the last minute, told Eradicate to put it in a box and deliver it at the Nestor home.
“Which he evidently did,” Tom went on, “but when it got there Mary’s present was in a box labeled ‘Dynamite. Handle with care.’ I never sent that.”
Mr. Damon read over Mr. Nestor’s letter which had lain so long in Tom’s pocket unopened.
“I think I see how it happened,” said the old man. “Eradicate can’t read; can he, Tom?”
“No, but he pretends he can.”
“And did you have any empty boxes marked dynamite in your laboratory?”
“Why yes, I believe I did. I used dynamite as one of the ingredients of my new explosive.”
“Well then, it’s as clear as daylight. Eradicate, being unable to read, took one of the empty dynamite boxes in which to pack Mary’s present. That’s how it happened.”
Tom thought for a moment. Then he burst into a laugh.
“That’s it,” he said, a bit ruefully. “That’s the explanation. No wonder Mr. Nestor was roiled. He thought I was playing a joke. I’ll have to explain. But how?”
“By letter,” said Mr. Damon.
“Too slow. I’ll send a wireless,” decided Tom, and he began the composition of a message that cost him considerable in tolls before he had hit on the explanation that suited him.
“That ought to clear the atmosphere,” he said when the wireless had shot his message into the ether. “Whew! And to think, all this while, Mary and her folks have believed that I tried to play a miserable joke on them! My! My! I wonder if they’ll ever forgive me. When I get hold of Eradicate–“
“Better teach him to read if he’s going to do up love packages,” interrupted Mr. Damon, dryly.
“I will,” decided the young inventor.
The Bellaconda stopped at Panama and then kept on her way south. Soon after that she ran into a severe tropical storm, and for a time there was some excitement among the passengers. The more timid of them put on life preservers, though the captain and his officers assured them there was no danger.
Tom and Mr. Titus, descending from the deck, whence they had been warned by one of the mates, were on their way to their stateroom, walking with some difficulty owing to the roll of the ship.
As they approached their quarters the door of a stateroom farther up the passage opened, and a head was thrust out.
“Will you send a steward to me?” a man requested. “I am feeling very ill, and need assistance.”
“Certainly,” Tom answered, and at that moment he heard Mr. Titus utter an exclamation.
“What is it?” asked Tom, for the man who had appealed for help, had withdrawn his head.
“That–that man!” exclaimed the contractor. “That was Waddington, the tool of our rivals.”
“Waddington!” repeated Tom, with a look at the now closed door. “Why, the bearded man has that stateroom–the bearded man who so nearly lost the steamer. He isn’t Waddington!”
“And I tell you Waddington is in that room!” insisted the contractor. “I only saw the upper part of his face, but I’d know his eyes anywhere. Waddington is spying on us!”
Chapter IV
The Bomb
Tom Swift and Mr. Titus withdrew a little way down the corridor, around a bulkhead and out of sight of any one who might look out from the stateroom whence had come the appeal for help. But, at the same time, they could keep watch over it.
“I tell you Waddington is in there!” insisted Mr. Titus, hoarsely whispering.
“Well, perhaps he may be,” admitted Tom. “But several times I have seen the bearded man going in there, and it’s only a single stateroom, for it’s so marked on the deck plan.”
“Waddington might be disguised with a false beard, Tom.”
“Yes, he might. But did the man who just now looked out have a beard?”
“I couldn’t tell, as I saw only the upper part of his face. But those were Waddington’s shifty eyes, I’m positive.”
“If Waddington were on board don’t you suppose you would have seen him before this?”
“Not positively, no. If he and the bearded man are one and the same that would account for it. But I haven’t noticed the bearded man once since he came aboard in such a hurry.”
“Nor have I, now that I come to think of it,” Tom admitted. “However, there is an easy way to prove who is in there.”
“How?”
“We’ll knock on the door and go in.”
“Perhaps he won’t let us.”
“He’ll think it’s the steward he called for. Come, you know Waddington better than I do. You knock and go in.”
“I don’t know Waddington very well,” admitted the contractor. “I have only seen him a few times, but I am sure that was he. But what shall I do when he sees I’m not the steward?”
“Tell him you have sent for one. I’ll go with the message, so it will be true enough. Even if you have only a momentary glance at him in close quarters you ought to be able to tell whether or not he has on a false beard, and whether or not it is Waddington.”
Mr. Titus considered for a moment, and then he said:
“Yes, I guess that is a good plan. You go for the steward, Tom, and I’ll see if I can get in that stateroom. But I’m sure I’m not mistaken. I’ll find Waddington in there, perhaps in the person of the bearded man, disguised. Or else they are using a single stateroom as a double one.” And while Tom went off down the pitching and rolling corridor to find a steward, Mr. Titus, not without some apprehension, advanced to knock on the door of the suspect.
“If it is Waddington he’ll know me at once, of course,” thought the contractor, “and there may be a row. Well, I can’t help it. The success of my brother and myself depends on finishing that tunnel, and we can’t have Waddington, and those whose tool he is, interfering. Here goes!”
He tapped on the door, and a faint voice called:
“Come in!”
The contractor entered, and saw the bearded man lying in his berth.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked the contractor, bending close over the man. He wanted to see if the beard were false. Somewhat to his surprise the contractor saw that undoubtedly it was real.
“Steward, will you kindly get me–Oh, you’re not the steward!” the bearded man exclaimed.
“No, my friend and I heard you call,” replied the contractor. “He has gone for the steward, who will be here soon. Can I do anything for you in the meanwhile?”
“No–not a thing!” was the rather snappish answer, and the man turned his face away. “I beg your pardon,” he went on, as if conscious that he had acted rudely, “but I am suffering very much. The steward knows just what I want. I have had these attacks before. I am a poor sailor. If you will send the steward to me I will be obliged to you. He can fix me up.”
“Very well,” assented Mr. Titus. “But if there is anything I can do –“
At that moment footsteps and voices were heard in the corridor, and as the door of the bearded man’s stateroom was opened, Mr. Titus had a glimpse of Tom and one of the stewards.
“Yes, I’ll look after him,” the steward said “He’s been this way before. Thank you, sir, for calling me.”
“I guess the steward has been well tipped,” thought Tom. As Mr. Titus came out and the door was shut, the young inventor asked in a whisper
“Well, was it be?”
The contractor shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “I never was more surprised in my life. I felt sure it was Waddington in there, but it wasn’t. That man’s beard is real, and while he has a look like Waddington about the eyes and upper part of his face, the man is a stranger to me. That is I think so, but in spite of all that, I have a queer feeling that I have met him before.”
“Where?” Tom inquired.
“That I can’t say,” and the tunnel contractor shook his head. “Whew! That was a bad one!” he exclaimed, as the steamer pitched and tossed in an alarming manner.
“Yes, the storm seems to be getting worse instead of better,” agreed Tom. “I hope none of the cargo shifts and comes banging up against my new explosive. If it does, there’ll be no more tunnel digging for any of us.”
“Better not mention the fact of the explosives on board,” suggested Mr. Titus.
“I won’t,” promised Tom. “The passengers are frightened enough as it is. But I watched the powder being stored away. I guess it is safe.”
The storm raged for two days before it began to die away. Meanwhile, nothing was seen, on deck or in the dining cabins, of the bearded man.
Tom and Mr. Titus made some guarded inquiries of the steward who had attended the sick man, and from him learned that he was down on the passenger list as Senor Pinto, from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He was traveling in the interests of a large firm of coffee importers of the United States, and was going to Lima.
“And there’s no trace of Waddington?” asked Tom of Mr. Titus, as they were discussing matters in their stateroom one day.
“Not a trace. He seems to have dropped out of sight, and I’m glad of it.”
“Perhaps Blakeson & Grinder have given up the fight against you.”
“I wish they had, though I don’t look for any such good luck. But I’m willing to fight them, now that we have an even chance, thanks to your explosive.”
The storm blew itself out. The Bellaconda “crossed the line,” and there was the usual horseplay among the sailors when Father Neptune came aboard to hold court. Those who had never before been below the equator were made to undergo more or less of an initiation, being lathered and shaved, and then pushed backward into a canvas tank of water on deck.
While Tom enjoyed the voyage, with the possible exception of the storm, he was anxious, and so was Mr. Titus, for the time to come when they should get to the tunnel and try the effect of the new explosive. Mr. Damon found an elderly gentleman as fond of playing chess as was the eccentric man himself, and his days were fully occupied with castles, pawns, knights, kings, queens and so on. As for Koku he was taken in charge by the sailors and found life forward very agreeable.
Senor Pinto had recovered from his seasickness, the steward told Tom and Mr. Titus, but still he kept to his stateroom.
It was when the Bellaconda was within a day or two of Callao that a wireless message was received for Mr. Titus. It was from his brother. The message read:
“Have information from New York office that rivals are after you. Look out for explosive.”
“What does that mean?” asked Tom.
“Well, I presume it means our rival contractors know we have a supply of your new powder on board, and they may try to get it away from us.”
“Why?” Tom demanded.
“To prevent our using it to complete the tunnel. In that case they’ll get the secret of it to use for themselves, when the contract goes to them by default. Can we do anything to protect the powder, Tom?”
“Well, I don’t know that we’ll need to while it’s stowed away in the cargo. They can’t get at it any more than we can, until the ship unloads. I guess it’s safe enough. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open when it’s taken out of the hold, though.”
Tom and Mr. Titus, both of whom were fond of fresh air and exercise, had made it a practice to get up an hour before breakfast and take a constitutional about the steamer deck. They did this as usual the morning after the wireless warning was received, and they were standing near the port rail, talking about this, when they heard a thud on the deck behind them. Both turned quickly, and saw a round black object rolling toward them. From the object projected what seemed to be a black cord, and the end of this cord was glowing and smoking.
For a moment neither Tom nor Mr. Titus spoke. Then, as a slow motion of the ship rolled the round black thing toward Tom, he cried:
“It a bomb!”
He darted toward it, but Mr. Titus pulled him back.
“Run!” yelled the contractor.
Before either of them could do anything, a queer figure of an elderly gentleman stepped partly from behind a deck- house, and stooped over the smoking object.
“Look out!” yelled Mr. Titus, crouching low. “That’s an explosive bomb! Toss it overboard!”
Chapter X
Professor Bumper
Fairly fascinated by the spluttering fuse, neither Tom nor Mr. Titus moved for a second, while the deadly fire crept on through the black string-like affair, nearer and nearer to the bomb itself.
Then, just as Tom, holding back his natural fear, was about to thrust the thing overboard with his foot, hardly realizing that it might be even more deadly to the ship in the water than it was on the deck, the foot of the newcomer was suddenly thrust out from behind the deck-house, and the sizzling fuse was trodden upon.
It went out in a puff of smoke, but the owner of the foot was not satisfied with that for a hand reached down, lifted the bomb, the fuse of which still showed a smouldering spark of fire, and calmly pulled out the “tail” of the explosive. It was harmless then, for the fuse, with a trail of smoke following, was tossed into the sea, and the little man came out from behind the deck-house, holding the unexploded bomb.
For a moment neither Tom nor Mr. Titus could speak. They felt an inexpressible sense of relief. Then Tom managed to gasp out:
“You–you saved our lives!”
The little man who had stepped on the fuse, and had then torn it from the bomb, looked at the object in his hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world to pick explosives up off the deck of passenger steamers, as he remarked:
“Well, perhaps I did. Yes, I think it would have gone off in another second or two. Rather curious; isn’t it?”
“Curious? Curious!” asked and exclaimed Mr. Titus.
“Why, yes,” went on the little man, in the most matter of fact tone. “You see, most explosive bombs are round, made that way so the force will be equal in all directions. But this one, you notice, has a bulge, or protuberance, on one side, so to speak. Very curious!
“It might have been made that way to prevent its rolling overboard, or the bomb’s walls might be weaker near that bulge to make sure that the force of the explosion would be in that direction. And the bulge was pointed toward you gentlemen, if you noticed.”
“I should say I did!” cried Mr. Titus. “My dear sir, you have put us under a heavy debt to you! You saved our lives! I–I am in no frame of mind to thank you now, but–“
He strode over to the little man, holding out his hand.
“No, no, I’d better keep it,” went on the person who had rendered the bomb ineffective. “You might drop it you know. You are nervous–your hand shakes.”
“I want to shake hands with you!” exclaimed Mr. Titus– “to thank you!”
“Oh, that’s it. I thought you wanted the bomb. Shake hands? Certainly!”
And while this ceremony was being gone through with, Tom had a moment to study the appearance of the man who had saved their lives. He had seen the passenger once or twice before, but had taken no special notice of him. Now he had good reason to observe him.
Tom beheld a little, thin man, little in the sense of being of the “bean pole” construction. His head was as bald as a billiard ball, as the young inventor could notice when the stranger took off his hat to bow formally in response to the greeting of some ladies who passed, while Mr. Titus was shaking hands with him.
The bald head was sunk down between two high shoulders, and when the owner wished to observe anything closely, as he was now observing the bomb, the head was thrust forward somewhat as an eagle might do. And Tom noticed that the eyes of the little man were as bright as those of an eagle. Nothing seemed to escape them.
“I want to add my thanks to those of Mr. Titus for saving our lives,” said Tom, as he advanced. “We don’t know what to make of it all, but you certainly stopped that bomb from going off.”
“Yes, perhaps I did,” admitted the little man coolly and calmly, as though preventing bomb explosions was his daily exercise before breakfast.
Tom and Mr. Titus introduced themselves by name.
“I am Professor Swyington Bumper,” said the bomb-holder, with a bow, removing his hat, and again disclosing his shiny bald head. “I am very glad to have met you indeed.”
“And we are more than glad,” said Tom, fervently, as he glanced at the explosive.
“Now that the danger is over,” went on Mr. Titus, “suppose we make an investigation, and find out how this bomb came to be here.”
“Just what I was about to suggest,” remarked Professor Bumper. “Bombs, such as this, do not sprout of themselves on bare decks. And I take it this one is explosive.”
“Let me look at it,” suggested Tom. “I know something of explosives.”
It needed but a casual examination on the part of one who had done considerable experimenting with explosives to disclose the fact that it had every characteristic of a dangerous bomb. Only the pulling out of the fuse had rendered it harmless.
“If it had gone off,” said Tom, “we would both have been killed, or. at least, badly injured, Mr. Titus.”
“I believe you, Tom. And we owe our lives to Professor Bumper.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, gentlemen,” the scientist remarked, in an easy tone. “Explosives are out of my line, but I guessed it was rather dangerous to let this go off. Have you any idea how it got here?”
“Not in the least,” said Tom. “But some one must have placed it here, or dropped it behind us.”
“Would any one have an object in doing such a thing?” the professor asked.
Tom and Mr. Titus looked at one another.
“Waddington!” murmured the contractor. “If he were on board I should say he might have done it to get us out of the way, though I would not go so far as to say he meant to kill us. It may be this bomb has only a light charge in it, and he only meant to cripple us.”
“We’ll find out about that,” said Tom. “I’ll open it.”
“Better be careful,” urged Mr. Titus.
“I will,” the young inventor promised. “I beg your pardon,” he went on to Professor Bumper. “We have been talking about something of which you know nothing. Briefly, there is a certain man who is trying to interfere in some work in which Mr. Titus and I are interested, and we think, if he were on board, he might have placed this bomb where it would injure us.”
“Is he here?” asked the professor.
“No. And that is what makes it all the more strange,” said Mr. Titus. “At one time I thought he was here, but I was mistaken.”
Tom took the now harmless bomb to his stateroom, and there, after taking the infernal machine apart, he discovered that it was not as dangerous as he had at first believed.
The bomb contained no missiles, and though it held a quantity of explosive, it was of a slow burning kind. Had it gone off it would have sent out a sheet of flame that would have severely burned him and Mr. Titus, but unless complications had set in death would not have resulted.
“They just wanted to disable us,” said the contractor. “That was their game. Tom, who did it?”
“I don’t know. Did you ever see this Professor Bumper before?”
“I never did.”
“And did it strike you as curious that he should happen to be so near at hand when the bomb fell behind us?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted the contractor. “Do you mean that he might have dropped it himself?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” replied Tom, slowly. “But I think it would be a good idea to find out all we can of Professor Swyington Bumper.”
“I agree with you, Tom. We’ll investigate him.”
Chapter XI
In the Andes
Professor Swyington Bumper seemed to live in a region all by himself. Though he was on board the Bellaconda, he might just as well have been in an airship, or riding along on the back of a donkey, as far as his knowledge, or recognition, of his surroundings went. He seemed to be thinking thoughts far, far away, and he was never without a book–either a bound volume or a note-book. In the former he buried his hawk-like nose, and Tom, looking over his shoulder once, saw that the book was printed in curious characters, which, later, he learned were Sanskrit. If he had a note-book the bald-headed professor was continually jotting down memoranda in it.
“I can hardly think of him as a conspirator against us,” said Tom to Mr. Titus.
“After you have been in the contracting business as long as I have you’ll distrust every one,” was the answer. “Waddington isn’t on board, or I’d distrust him. That Spaniard, Senor Pinto. seems to be out of consideration, and there only remains the professor. We must watch him.”
But Professor Bumper proved to be above suspicion. Carefully guarded inquiries made of the captain, the purser and other ships’ officers, brought out the fact that he was well known to all of them, having traveled on the line before.
“He is making a search for something, but he won’t say what it is,” the captain said. “At first we thought it was gold or jewels, for he goes away off into the Andes Mountains, where both gold and jewels have been found. He never looks for treasure, though, for though some of his party have made rather rich discoveries, he takes no interest in them.”
“What is he after then?” asked Mr. Titus.
“No one knows, and he won’t tell. But whatever it is he has never found it yet. Always, when he comes back, unsuccessful, from a trip to the interior and goes back North with us, he will remark that he has not the right directions. That he must seek again.
“Back he comes next season, as full of hope as before, but only to be disappointed. Each time he goes to a new place in the mountains where he digs and delves, so members of the parties he hires tell me, but with no success. He carries with him something in a small iron box, and, whatever this is, he consults it from time to time. It may be directions for finding whatever he is after. But there seems to be something wrong.”
“This is quite a mystery,” remarked Tom.
“It certainly is. But Professor Bumper is a fine man. I have known him for years.”
“This seems to dispose of the theory that he planted the bomb, and that he is one of the plotters in the pay of Blakeson & Grinder,” said Mr. Titus, when he and Tom were alone.
“Yes, I guess it does. But who can have done it?”
That was a question neither could answer.
Tom had a theory, which he did not disclose to Mr. Titus, that, after all, the somewhat mysterious Senor Pinto might, in some way, be mixed up in the bomb attempt. But a close questioning of the steward on duty near the foreigner’s cabin at the time disclosed the fact that Pinto had been ill in his berth all that day.
“Well, unless the bomb fell from some passing airship, I don’t see how it got on deck,” said Tom with a shake of his head. “And I’m sure no airship passed over us.”
They had kept the matter secret, not telling even Mr. Damon, for they feared the eccentric man would make a fuss and alarm the whole vessel. So Mr. Damon, occasionally blessing his necktie or his shoe laces, played chess with his elderly gentleman friend and was perfectly happy.
That Professor Bumper not only had kept his promise about not mentioning the bomb, but that he had forgotten all about it, was evident a day or two after the happening. Tom and Mr. Titus passed him on deck, and bowed cordially. The professor returned the salutation, but looked at the two in a puzzled sort of fashion.
“I beg your pardon,” he remarked, “but your faces are familiar, though I cannot recall your names. Haven’t I seen you before?”
“You have,” said Tom, with a smile. “You saved our lives from a bomb the other day.”
“Oh, yes! So I did! So I did!” exclaimed Professor Bumper. “I felt sure I had seen you before. Are you all right?”
“Yes. There haven’t been any more bombs thrown at us,” the contractor said. “By the way, Professor Bumper, I understand you are quite a traveler in the Andes, in the vicinity of Lima.”
“Yes, I have been there,” admitted the bald-headed scientist in guarded tones.
“Well, I am digging a tunnel in that vicinity,” went on Mr. Titus, “and if you ever get near Rimac, where the first cutting is made, I wish you would come and see me–Tom too, as he is associated with me.”
“Rimac-Rimac,” murmured the professor, looking sharply at the contractor. “Digging a tunnel there? Why are you doing that?” and he seemed to resent the idea.
“Why, the Peruvian government engaged me to do it to connect the two railroad lines,” was the answer. “Do you know anything about the place?”
“Not so much as I hope to later on,” was the unexpected answer. “As it happens I am going to Rimac, and I may visit your tunnel.”
“I wish you would,” returned Mr. Titus.
Later on, in their stateroom, the contractor remarked to the young inventor:
“Sort of queer; isn’t it?”
“What?” asked Tom. “His not remembering us?”
“No, though that was odd. But I suppose he is forgetful, or pretends to be. I mean it’s queer he is going to Rimac.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“Well, I don’t know exactly what I mean,” went on the tunnel contractor, “but our tunnel happens to start at Rimac, which is a small town at the base of the mountains.”
“Maybe the professor is a geologist,” suggested Tom, “and he may want to get some samples of that hard rock.”
“Maybe,” admitted Mr. Titus. “But I shall keep my eyes on him all the same. I’m not going to have any strangers, who happen to be around when bombs drop near us, get into my tunnel.”
“I think you’re wrong to doubt Professor Bumper,” Tom said.
A few days after this, when Tom and Mr. Titus were casually discussing the weather on deck and wondering how much longer it would be before they reached Callao, Mr. Damon, who had been playing numberless games of chess, came up for a breath of air.
“Mr. Damon,” called Tom, “come over here and meet a friend of ours, Professor Bumper,” and he was about to introduce them, for the two, as far as Tom knew, had not yet met. But no sooner had the professor and Mr. Damon caught sight of each other than there was a look of mutual recognition.
“Bless my fountain pen!” cried the eccentric man. “If it isn’t my old friend!”
“Mr. Damon!” cried the professor. “I am delighted to see you again. I did not know you were on board!”
“Nor I you. Bless my apple dumpling! Are you still after those Peruvian antiquities?”
“I am, Mr. Damon. But I did not know you were acquainted with Mr. Swift.”
“Oh, Tom and I are old friends.”
“Professor Bumper saved the lives of Mr. Titus and myself,” said Tom, “or at least he saved us from severe injury by a bomb.”
“Pray do not mention it, my friends,” put in the professor, casually. “It was nothing.”
Of course he did not mean it just that way.
Then, naturally, Mr. Damon had to be told all about the bomb for the first time, and his wonder was great. He blessed everything he could think of.
“And to think it should be my old friend, Professor Bumper, who saved you,” said the odd man to Tom and Mr. Titus later that day.
“Do you know him well?” asked Mr. Titus.
“Very well indeed. Our drug concern sells him many chemicals for his experiments.”
“Well, if you know him I guess he can’t be what I thought he was,” the contractor went on. “I’m glad to know it. Why is he going to the Andes?”
“Oh, for many years he has been interested in collecting Peruvian antiquities. He has a certain theory in regard to something or other about their ancient civilization, but just what it is I have, at this moment, forgotten. Only I know you can thoroughly trust Professor Bumper, for a finer man never lived, though he is a bit absent-minded at times. But you will like him very much.”
Thus the last lingering doubt of Professor Bumper was removed. Mr. Damon told something of how the scientist had been honored by degrees from many colleges and was regarded as an authority on Peruvian matters.
But who had placed the bomb on deck remained a mystery.
In due time Callao, the seaport of Lima, was reached and our friends disembarked. Tom saw to the unloading of the explosive, which was to be sent direct to the tunnel at Rimac. Mr. Titus, Tom and Mr. Damon would remain in Lima a day or so.
Professor Bumper disembarked with our friends, and stopped at the same hotel. Tom kept a lookout for Senor Pinto, but did not see him, and concluded that the Spaniard was ill, and would be carried ashore on a stretcher, perhaps.
Lima, the principal city and capital of Peru, proved an interesting place. It was about eight miles inland and was built on an arid plain about five hundred feet above sea level. Yet, though it was on what might be termed a desert, the place, by means of irrigation, had been made into a beauty spot.
Tom found the older part of the city was laid out with mathematical regularity, each street crossing the other at right angles. But in the new portions there was not this adherence to straightness.
“Bless my transfer! Why, they have electric cars here!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, catching sight of one on the line between Callao and the capital.
“What did you think they’d have?” asked Mr. Titus, “elephants or camels?”
“I–I didn’t just know,” was the answer.
“Oh, you’ll find a deal of civilization here,” the contractor said. “Of course much of the population is negro or Indian, but they are often rich and able to buy what they want. There is a population of over 150,000, and there are two steam railroads between Callao and Lima, while there is one running into the interior for 130 miles, crossing the Andes at an elevation of over three miles. It is a branch of that road, together with a branch of the one running to Ancon, that I am to connect with a tunnel.”
Tom found some beautiful churches and cathedrals in Lima, and spent some time visiting them. He and Mr. Damon also visited, in the outskirts, the tobacco, cocoa and other factories.
Three days after reaching the capital, Mr. Titus having attended to some necessary business while Mr. Damon set on foot matters connected with his affairs, it was decided to strike inland to Rimac, and to try the effect of Tom Swift’s explosive on the tunnel.
The journey was to be made in part by rail, though the last stages of it were over a rough mountain trail, with llamas for beasts of burden, while our friends rode mules.
As Tom, Mr. Damon, Koku, and Mr. Titus were going to the railroad station they saw Professor Bumper also leaving the hotel.
“I believe our roads lie together for a time,” said the bald-headed scientist, “and, if you have no objections, I will accompany you.”
“Come, and welcome!” exclaimed Mr. Titus, all his suspicions now gone.
“And it may be that you will be able to help me,” the scientist went on.
“Help you–how?” asked Tom.
“I will tell you when we reach the Andes,” was the mysterious answer.
It was a day later when they left the train at a small station, and struck off into the foothills of the great Andes Mountains, where the tunnel was started, that the professor again mentioned his object.
“Friends,” he said, as he gazed up at the towering cliffs and crags, “I am searching for the lost city of Pelone, located somewhere in these mountains. Will you help me to find it?”
Chapter XII
The Tunnel
Mr. Damon, of the three who heard Professor Bumper make this statement, showed the least sign of astonishment. It would have been more correct to say that he showed none at all. But Tom could not restrain himself.
“The lost city of Pelone!” he exclaimed.
“Is it here–in these mountains?” asked Mr. Titus.
“I have reason to hope that it is,” went on the professor. “The golden tablets are very vague, but I have tried many locations, and now I am about to try here. I hope I shall succeed. At any rate, I shall have agreeable company, which has not always been my luck on my previous expeditions seeking to find the lost city.”
“Oh, Professor, are you still on that quest?” asked Mr. Damon, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes, Mr. Damon, I am. And now that I look about me, and see the shape of these mountains, I feel that they conform more to the description on the golden plates than any location I have yet tried. Somehow I feel that I shall be successful here.”
“Did you know Professor Bumper was searching for a lost city of the Andes?” asked Tom, of his eccentric friend.
“Why yes,” answered Mr. Damon. “He has been searching for years to locate it.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” inquired Mr. Titus.
“Why, I never thought of it. Bless my memorandum book! it never occurred to me. I did not think you would be interested. Tell them your story, Professor Bumper.”
“I will soon. Just now I must see to my equipment. The story will keep.”
And though Tom and Mr. Titus were both anxious to hear about the lost city, they, too, had much to do to get ready for the trip into the interior.
The beginning of the tunnel under one of the smaller of the ranges of the Andes lay two days journey from the end of the railroad line. And the trip must be made on mules, with llamas as beasts of burden, transporting the powder and other supplies.
“We’ll only need to take enough food with us for the two days,” said Mr. Titus. “We have a regular camp at the tunnel mouth, and my brother has supplies of grub and other things constantly coming in. We also have shacks to live in; but on this trip we will use tents, as the weather at this season is fine.”
It was quite a little expedition that set off up the mountain trail that afternoon, for they had arrived at the end of the railroad line shortly before dinner, and had eaten at a rather poor restaurant.
Professor Bumper had made up his own exploring party, consisting of himself and three native Indian diggers with their picks and shovels. They were to do whatever excavating he decided was necessary to locate the hidden city.
Several mules and llamas, laden with the new explosive, and burdened with camp equipment and food, and a few Indian servants made up the cavalcade of Tom, the contractor, Mr. Damon and Koku. The giant was almost as much a source of wonder to the Peruvians as he had been on board the ship. And he was a great help, too. For some of the Indians were under-sized, and could not lift the heavy boxes and packages to the backs of the beasts of burden.
But Koku, thrusting the little men aside, grasped with one hand what two of them had tried in vain to lift, and set it on the back of mule or llama.
The way was rough but they took their time to it, for the trail was an ascending one. Above and beyond them towered the great Andes, and Tom, gazing up into the sky, which in places seemed almost pierced by the snow-covered peaks, saw some small black specks moving about.
“Condors,” said Mr. Titus, when his attention was called to them. “Some of them are powerful birds, and they sometimes pick up a sheep and make off with it, though usually their food consists of carrion.”
They went into camp before the sun went down, for it grew dark soon after sunset, and they wanted to be prepared. Supper was made ready by the Indian helpers, and when this was over, and they sat about a camp fire, Tom said:
“Now, Professor Bumper, perhaps you’ll explain about the lost city.”
“I wish I could explain about it,” began the scientist. “For years I have dreamed of finding it, but always I have been disappointed. Now, perhaps, my luck may change.”
“Do you think it may be near here?” asked Mr. Titus, motioning toward the dark and frowning peaks all about them.
“It may be. The signs are most encouraging. In brief, the story of the lost city of Pelone is this. Thousands of years ago–in fact I do not know how many–there existed somewhere in Peru an ancient city that was the centre of civilization for this region. Older it was than the civilization of the Mexicans–the Montezumas–older and more cultured.
“It is many years since I became interested in Peruvian antiquities, and then I had no idea of the lost city. But some of the antiques I picked up contained in their inscriptions references to Pelone. At first I conceived this to be a sort of god, a deity, or perhaps a powerful ruler. But as I went on in my work of gathering ancient things from Peru, I saw that the name Pelone referred to a city–a seat of government, whence everything had its origin.
“Then I got on the track more closely. I examined ancient documents. I found traces of an ancient language and writings, different from anything else in the world. I managed to construct an alphabet and to read some of the documents. From them I learned that Pelone was a city situated in some fertile valley of the Andes. It had existed for thousands of years; it was the seat of learning and culture. Much light would be thrown on the lives of the people who lived in Peru before the present races inhabited it, if I could but locate Pelone.
“Then I came across two golden tablets on which were graven the information that Pelone had utterly vanished.”
“How?” asked Tom.
“The golden tablets did not say. They simply stated the fact that Pelone was lost, and one sentence read: ‘He who shall find it again shall be richly rewarded.’ But it is not for that that I seek. It is that I may give to the world the treasures it must contain–the treasures of an ancient civilization.”
“And how do you think the city disappeared?” asked Mr. Titus.
“I do not know. Whether it was destroyed by enemies, whether it was buried under the ashes of a volcano, whether it still exists, deserted and solitary in some valley amid the mountain fastnesses of the Andes, I do not know. But I am certain the city once existed, and it may exist yet, though it may be in dust-covered ruins. That is what I seek to find. See! Here are the tablets telling about it. I got them from an old Peruvian grave.”
He took from a box two thin sheets of yellow metal. They were covered with curious marks, but Tom and the others could make nothing of them. Only Professor Bumper was able to decipher them.
“And that is the story of the lost city of Pelone –as much as I know,” he said. “For years I have sought it. If I can find it I shall be famous, for I shall have added to human knowledge.”
“If the people of that city wrote on golden tablets, the yellow metal must have been plentiful,” commented Mr. Titus. “You might strike a rich mine.”
“I have no use for riches,” said the professor.
“Well, I have,” the contractor said, with a laugh. “That’s why I’m putting through this tunnel. And if my brother and I don’t do it we’ll be in a bad way financially. We have struck traces of gold, but not in paying quantities. I should like to see this lost city of yours, Professor Bumper. It may contain gold.”
“You may have all the gold, if I am allowed to keep the antiquities we find,” stipulated the scientist. “Then you will help me in my search?”
“As much as we can spare time for from the tunnel work,” promised Mr. Titus. “I’ll instruct my men to keep their eyes open for any sign of ancient writings on the rocks we blast out.”
“Thank you,” said the professor.
The night passed uneventfully enough, if one excepts the mosquitoes which seemed to get through the nets, making life miserable for all. And once Tom thought he heard gruntings in the bush back of the tent, which noises might, he imagined, have been caused by a bear. Toward morning he heard an unearthly screech in the woods, and one of the Indians, tending the fire, grunted out a word which meant pumas.
“I can see it isn’t going to be dull here,” Tom mused, as he turned over and tried to sleep.
Breakfast made them all feel better, and they set off on the final stage of their journey.
“If all goes well we’ll be at the tunnel entrance and camp to-night,” said the contractor. “This second half of the trip is the roughest.”
There was no need of saying that, for it was perfectly evident. The trail was a most precarious one, and only a mule or llama could have traveled it. The mules were most sure-footed, but, as it was, one slipped, and came near falling over a cliff.
But no real accident occurred, and finally, about an hour before sunset, the cavalcade turned down the slope and emerged on a level plain, which ended against the face of a great cliff.
As Tom rode nearer the cliff he could make out around it groups of rude buildings, covered with corrugated iron. There was quite a settlement it seemed.
Then, in the face of the cliff there showed something black–like a blot of ink, though more regular in outline.
“The mouth of the tunnel,” said Mr. Titus to Tom. “Come on over to the office and I’ll introduce you to my brother. I guess he will be glad we’ve arrived.”
Tom dismounted from his mule, an example followed by the others. Professor Bumper gazed up at the great mountains and murmured:
“I wonder if the lost city of Pelone lies among them?”
Suddenly the silence of the evening was broken by a dull, rumbling sound.
“Bless my court plaster!” cried Mr. Damon. “What’s that?”
“A blast,” answered Mr. Titus. “But I never knew them to set off one so late before. I hope nothing is wrong!”
And, as he spoke, panic-stricken men began running out of the mouth of the tunnel, while those outside hastened toward them, shouting and calling.
Chapter XIII
Tom’s Explosive
“Something has happened!” cried Mr. Titus as he ran forward, followed by Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku. Professor Bumper started with them, but on the way he saw a curious bit of rock which he stopped to pick up and examine.
At the entrance of the tunnel, from which came rushing dirt-stained and powder-blackened men, Mr. Titus was met by a man who seemed to be in authority.
“Hello, Job!” he cried. “Glad you’re back. We’re in trouble!”
“What’s the matter?” was the question. “This is my brother Walter,” he said. “This is Tom Swift and Mr. Damon,” thus hurriedly he introduced them. “What happened, Walter?”
“Premature blast. Third one this week. Somebody is working against us!”
“Never mind that now,” cried Job Titus. “We must see to the poor fellows who are hurt.” “I guess there aren’t many,” his brother said. “They were on their way out when the charge went off. Some more of Blakeson & Grinder’s work, I’ll wager!”
They were rushing in to the smoke-filled tunnel now, followed by Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku, who would follow his young master anywhere. Tom saw that the tunnel was lighted with incandescent lamps, suspended here and there from the rocky roof or sides. The electric lights were supplied with current from a dynamo run by a gasoline engine.
“Where is it, Serato? Where was the blast?” asked Walter Titus, of a tall Indian, who seemed to be in some authority.
“Back at second turn,” was the answer, in fairly good English. “I go get beds.”
“He means stretchers,” translated Job. “That’s our Peruvian foreman. A good fellow, but easily scared.”
They ran on into the tunnel, Tom and Mr. Damon noticing that a small narrow-gage railroad was laid on the floor, mules being the motive power to bring out the small dump cars loaded with rock and dirt, excavated from the big hole.
“Mind the turn!” called Job Titus, who was ahead of Tom and Mr. Damon. “It’s rough here.”
Tom found it so, for he slipped over some pieces of rock, and would have fallen had not Koku held him up.
“Thanks,” gasped Tom, as on he ran.
A little later he came to a place where a cluster of electric lights gave better illumination, and he could see it was there that the damage had been done.
A number of men were lying on the dirt and rock floor of the tunnel, and some of them were bleeding. Others were staggering about as though shocked or stunned.
“We must get the injured ones out of here!” cried Walter Titus. “Where are the men with stretchers?”
“I sint that Spalapeen Serato for thim!” broke in a voice, rich in Irish brogue. “But he’s thot stupid he might think I was after sindin’ him fer wather!”
“No, Tim. Serato is after the stretchers all right,” said Walter. “We passed him on the way.”
“That’s Tim Sullivan, our Irish foreman, though he has only a few of his own kind to boss,” explained Job Titus in a whisper.
Some of the workmen (all of whom save the few Irish referred to were Peruvian Indians) had now recovered from their shock, or fright, and began to help the Titus brothers, Tom, Mr. Damon and Koku in looking after the injured. Of these there were five, only two of whom were, seemingly, seriously hurt.
“Me take them out,” said Koku, and placing one gently over his left shoulder, and the other over his right, out of the tunnel he stalked with them, not waiting for the stretchers.
And it was well he did so, for one man was in need of an immediate operation, which was performed at the rude hospital the contractors maintained at the tunnel mouth. The other man died as Koku was carrying him out, but the giant had saved one life.
Serato, the Indian foreman, with some of his men now came in, and the other injured were carried out on stretchers, being attended to by the two doctors who formed part of the tunnel force. Among a large body of men some were always falling ill or getting hurt, and in that wild country a doctor had to be kept near at hand.
When the excitement had died down, and it was found that one death would be the total toll of the accident and that the premature blast had done no damage to the tunnel, the two Titus brothers began to consider matters.
Tom, Mr. Damon and the two contractors sat in the main office and talked things over. Koku was eating supper, though the others had finished. but, naturally, it took Koku twice as long as any one else. Professor Bumper was busy transcribing material in his note-book.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve come back, Job,” said his brother. “Things have been going at sixes and sevens here since you went to get some new kind of blasting powder. By the way, I hope you got it, for we are practically at a standstill.”
“Oh, I got it all right–some of Tom Swift’s best– specially made for us. And, better still, I’ve brought Tom back with me.”
“So I see. Well, I’m glad he’s here.”
“Now what about this accident to-day?” went on Job.
“Well, as I said, it’s the third this week. All of them seemed to be premature blasts. But I’ve sent for some of the fuses used. I’m going to get at the bottom of this. Here is Sullivan with them now. Come in, Tim,” he called, as the Irishman knocked at the door.
“Are they the fuses used in the blasts?” Walter asked.
“They are, sor. An’ they mostly burn five minutes, which is plenty of time fer all th’ min t’ git out of danger. Only this time th’ fuse didn’t seem to burn more than a minute, an’ I lit it meself.”
“Let’s see how long they burn now,” suggested Job.
One of the longer fuses was lighted. It spluttered and smoked, while the contractors timed it with their watches.
“Four minutes!” exclaimed Job. “That’s queer, and they’re the regular ten minute length. I wonder what this means.
He took up another fuse, and examined it closely.
“Why!” he cried. “These aren’t our fuses at all. They’re another make, and much more rapid in burning. No wonder you’ve been having premature blasts. They go off in about half the time they should.”
“I can’t understhand thot!” said Tim, thoughtfully. “I keep all the fuses locked up, and only take thim out when I need thim.”
“Then somebody has been at your box, Tim, and they took out our regular fuses and put in these quicker ones. It’s a game to make trouble for us among our men, and to damage the tunnel.”
“Bless my rubber boots!” cried Mr. Damon. “Who would do a thing like that?”
“Our rivals, perhaps, though I do not like to accuse any man on such small evidence,” said Walter. “But we must adopt new measures.”
“And be very careful of the fuses,” said Job.
“Thot’s what I will!” declared Tim. “I’ll put th’ supply in a new place. No wonder there was blasts before th’ min could git out th’ way! Bad cess t’ th’ imps thot did this!” and he banged his big fist down on the table.
Since the trouble began a guard had been always posted around the tunnel entrance and surrounding buildings, and this night the patrol was doubled. Tom, Mr. Damon and the two Titus brothers sat up quite late, talking over plans and ideas.
Professor Bumper went to bed early, as he said he was going to set off before sunrise to make a search for the lost city.
“I regard him as more or less of a visionary,” said Mr. Job Titus; “but he seems a harmless gentleman, and we’ll do all we can to help him.”
“Surely,” agreed his brother.
The night was not marked by any disturbance, and after breakfast, Tom, under the guidance of the Titus brothers, looked over the tunnel with a view to making his first experiment with the new explosive.
The tunnel was being driven straight into the face of one of the smaller ranges of the Andes Mountains. It was to be four miles in length, and when it emerged on the other side it would enable trains to make connections between the two railroads, thus tapping a rich and fertile country.
On the site of the tunnel, which was two days’ mule travel east from Rimac, the Titus brothers had assembled their heavy machinery. They had brought some of their own men, including Tim Sullivan, with them, but the other labor was that of Peruvian Indians, with a native foreman, Serato, over them.
There were engines, boilers, dynamos, motors, diamond drills, steam shovels and a miniature railway, with mules as the motive power. A small village had sprung up at the tunnel mouth, and there was a general store, besides many buildings for the sleeping and eating quarters of the laborers, as well as places where the white men could live. Their quarters were some distance from the native section.
Powder, supplies, in fact everything save what game could be obtained in the forest, or what grains or fruits were brought in by natives living near by, had to be brought over the rough trail. But Titus Brothers had a large experience in engineering matters in wild and desolate countries, and they knew how to be as comfortable as possible.
Mr. Damon learned that one of the districts whence his company had been in the habit of getting quinine was distant a day’s journey over the mountain, so he decided to make the trip, with a native guide, and see if he could get at the bottom of the difficulty in forwarding shipments.
This was a few days after the arrival of our friends. Meanwhile, Tom had been shown all through the tunnel by the Titus Brothers and had had his first sight of the hard cliff of rock which seemed to be a veritable stone wall in the way of progress–or at least such progress as was satisfactory to the contractors.
“Well, we’ll try what some of my explosive will do,” said Tom, when he had finished the examination. “I don’t claim it will be as successful as the sample blast we set off at Shopton, but we’ll do our best.”
Holes were drilled in the face of the rock, and several charges of the new explosive tamped in. Wires were attached to the fuses, which were of a new kind, and warning was given to clear the tunnel. The wires ran out to the mouth of the horizontal shaft and Tom, holding the switch in his hand made ready to set off the blast.
“Are they all out?” he asked Tim Sullivan, who had emerged, herding the Indian laborers before him. Tim insisted on being the last man to seek safety when an explosion was to take place.
“All ready, sor,” answered the foreman.
“Here she goes!” cried Tom, as his fingers closed the circuit.
Chapter XIV
Mysterious Disappearances
There was a dull, muffled report, a sort of rumbling that seemed to extend away down under the earth and then echo back again until the ground near the mouth of the tunnel, where the party was standing, appeared to rock and heave. There followed a cloud of yellow, heavy smoke which made one choke and gasp, and Tom, seeing it, cried:
“Down! Down, everybody! There’s a back draft, and if you breathe any of that powder vapor you’ll have a fearful headache! Get down, until the smoke rises!”
The tunnel contractors and their men understood the danger, for they had handled explosives before. It is a well-known fact that the fumes of dynamite and other giant powders will often produce severe headaches, and even illness. Tom’s explosive contained a certain percentage of dynamite, and he knew its ill effects. Stretched prone, or crouching on the ground, there was little danger, as the fumes, being lighter than air, rose. The yellow haze soon drifted away, and it was safe to rise.
“Well, I wonder how much rock your explosive tore loose for us, Tom,” observed Job Titus, as he looked at the thin, yellowish cloud of smoke that was still lazily drifting from the tunnel.
“Can’t tell until we go in and take a look,” replied the young inventor. “It won’t be safe to go in for a while yet, though. That smoke will hang in there a long time. I didn’t think there’d be a back draft.”
“There is, for we’ve often had the same trouble with our shots,” Walter Titus said. “I can’t account for it unless there is some opening in the shaft, connecting with the outer air, which admits a wind that drives the smoke out of the mouth, instead of forward into the blast hole. It’s a queer thing and we haven’t been able to get at the bottom of it.”
“That’s right,” agreed his brother. “We’ve looked for some opening, or natural shaft, but haven’t been able to find it. Sometimes we shoot off a charge and everything goes well, the smoke disappears in a few minutes. Again it will all blow out this way and we lose half a day waiting for the air to clear. There’s a hidden shaft, or natural chimney, I’m sure, but we can’t find it.”
“Thot blast didn’t make much racket,” commented Tim Sullivan. “I doubt thot much rock come down. An’ thot’s not sayin’ anythin’ ag’in yer powder, lad,” he went on to Tom.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Tom Swift replied, with a laugh. “My explosive doesn’t work by sound. It has lots of power, but it doesn’t produce much concussion.”
“We’ve often made more noise with our blasts,” confirmed Job Titus, “but I can’t say much for our results.”
They were all anxious, Tom included, to hurry into the tunnel to see how much rock had been loosened by the blast, but it was not safe to venture in until the fumes had been allowed to disperse. In about an hour, however, Tim Sullivan, venturing part way in, sniffed the air and called:
“It’s all right, byes! Air’s clear. Now come on!”
They all hurried eagerly into the shaft, Mr. Damon stumbling along at Tom’s side, as anxious as the lad himself. Before they reached the face of the cliff against which the bore had been driven, and which was as a solid wall of rock to further progress, they began to tread on fragments of stone.
“Well, it blew some as far back as here,” said Walter Titus. “That’s a good sign.”
“I hope so,” Tom remarked.
There were still some fumes noticeable in the tunnel, and Mr. Damon complained of a slight feeling of illness, while Koku, who kept at Tom’s side, murmured that it made his eyes smart. But the sensations soon passed.
They came to a stop as the face of the cliff loomed into view in the glare of a searchlight which Job Titus switched on. Then a murmur of wonder came from every one, save from Tom Swift. He, modestly, kept silent.
“Bless my breakfast orange!” cried Mr. Damon. “What a big hole!”
There was a great gash blown in the hard rock which had acted as a bar to the further progress of the tunnel. A great heap of rock, broken into small fragments, was on the floor of the shaft, and there was a big hole filled with debris which would have to be removed before the extent of the blast could be seen.
“That’s doing the work!” cried Job Titus.
“It beats any two blasts we ever set off,” declared his brother.
“Much fine!” muttered the Peruvian foreman, Serato.
“It’s a lalapaloosa, lad! Thot’s what it is!” enthusiastically exclaimed Tim Sullivan. “Now the black beggars will have some rock to shovel! Come on there, Serato, git yer lazy imps t’ work cartin’ this stuff away. We’ve got a man on th’ job now in this new powder of Tom Swift’s. Git busy!”
“Um!” grunted the Indian, and he called to his men who were soon busy with picks and shovels, loading the loosened rock and earth into the mule-hauled dump cars which took it to the mouth of the tunnel, whence it was shunted off on another small railroad to fill in a big gulch to save bridging it.
Tom’s first blast was very successful, and enough rock was loosed to keep the laborers busy for a week. The contractors were more than satisfied.
“At this rate we’ll finish ahead of time, and earn a premium,” said Job to his brother.
“That’s right. You didn’t make any mistake in appealing to Tom Swift. But I wonder if Blakeson & Grinder have given up trying to get the job away from us?”
“I don’t know. I’d never trust them. We must watch out for Waddington. That bomb on the vessel had a funny look, even if it was not meant to kill Tom or me. I won’t relax any.”
“No, I guess it wouldn’t be safe.”
But a week went by without any manifestation having been made by the rival tunnel contractors. During that week more of Tom’s explosive arrived, and he busied himself getting ready another blast which could be set off as soon as the debris from the first should have been cleared away.
Meanwhile, Professor Bumper, with his Indian guides and helpers, had made several trips into the mountain regions about Rimac, but each time that he returned to the tunnel camp to renew his supplies, he had only a story of failure to recite.
“But I am positive that somewhere in this vicinity is the lost Peruvian city of Pelone,” he said. “Every indication points to this as the region, and the more I study the plates of gold, and read their message, the more I am convinced that this is the place spoken of.
“But we have been over many mountains, and in more valleys, without finding a trace of the ancient civilization I feel sure once flourished here. There are no relics of a lost race–not so much as an arrow or spear head. But, somehow or other, I feel that I shall find the lost city. And when I do I shall be famous!”
“Mr. Damon and I will help you all we can, Tom said. “As soon as I get ready the next blast I’ll have a little time to myself, and we will go with you on a trip or two.”
“I shall be very glad to have you,” the bald-headed scientist remarked.
Tom’s second blast was even more successful than the first, and enough of the hard rock was loosed and pulverized to give the Indian laborers ten days’ work in removing it from the tunnel.
Then, as the services of the young inventor would not be needed for a week or more, he decided to go on a little trip with Professor Bumper.
“I’ll come too,” said Mr. Damon. “One of the sub- contractors whose men are gathering the cinchona bark for our firm has his headquarters in the region where you are going, and I can go over there and see why he isn’t up to the mark.”
Accordingly, preparations having been made to spend a week in camp in the forests of the Andes, Tom and his party set off one morning. Professor Bumper’s Indian helpers would do the hard work, and, of course, Koku, who went wherever Tom went, would be on hand in case some feat of strength were needed.
It was a blind search, this hunt for a lost city, and as much luck might be expected going in one direction as in another; so the party had no fixed point toward which to travel. Only Mr. Damon stipulated that he wanted to reach a certain village, and they planned to include that on their route.
Tom Swift took his electric rifle with him, and with it he was able to bring down a couple of deer which formed a welcome addition to the camp fare.
The rifle was a source of great wonder to the Peruvians. They were familiar with ordinary firearms, and some of them possessed old-fashioned guns. But Tom’s electric weapon, which made not a sound, but killed with the swiftness of light, was awesome to them. The interpreter accompanying Professor Bumper confided privately to Tom that the other Indians regarded the young inventor as a devil who could, if he wished, slay by the mere winking of an eye.
Mr. Damon located the quinine-gathering force he was anxious to see, and, through the interpreter, told the chief that more bark must be brought in to keep up to the terms of the contract.
But something seemed to be the matter. The Indian chief was indifferent to the interpreted demands of Mr. Damon, and that gentleman, though he blessed any number of animate and inanimate objects, seemed to make no impression.
“No got men to gather bark, him say,” translated the interpreter.
“Hasn’t got any men!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “Why, look at all the lazy beggars around the village.”
This was true enough, for there were any number of able- bodied Indians lolling in the shade.
“Him say him no got,” repeated the translator, doggedly.
At that moment screams arose back of one the grass huts, and a child ran out into the open, followed by a savage dog which was snapping at the little one’s bare legs.
“Bless my rat trap!” gasped Mr. Damon. “A mad dog!”
Shouts and cries arose from among the Indians. Women screamed, and those who had children gathered them up in their arms to run to shelter. The men threw all sorts of missiles at the infuriated animal, but seemed afraid to approach it to knock it over with a club, or to go to the relief of the frightened child which was now only a few feet ahead of the animal, running in a circle.
“Me git him!” cried Koku, jumping forward.
“No, Wait!” exclaimed Tom Swift. “You can kill the dog all right, Koku,” he said, “but a scratch from his tooth might be fatal. I’ll fix him!”
Snatching his electric rifle from the Indian bearer who carried it, Tom took quick aim. There was no flash, no report and no puff of smoke, but the dog suddenly crumpled up in a heap, and, with a dying yelp, rolled to one side. The child was saved.
The little one, aware that something had happened, turned and saw the stretched out form of its enemy. Then, sobbing and crying, it ran toward its mother who had just heard the news.
While the mothers gathered about the child, and while the older boys and girls made a ring at a respectful distance from the dog, there was activity noticed among the men of the village. They began hurrying out along the forest paths.
“Where are they going?” asked Tom. “Is there some trouble? Was that a sacred dog, and did I get in bad by killing it?”
The interpreter and the native chief conversed rapidly for a moment and then the former, turning to Tom, said:
“Men go git cinchona bark now. Plenty get for him,” and he pointed to Mr. Damon. “They no like stay in village. T’ink yo’ got lightning in yo’ pocket,” and he pointed to the electric rifle.
“Oh, I see!” laughed Tom. “They think I’m a sort of wizard. Well, so I am. Tell them if they don’t get lots of quinine bark I’ll have to stay here until all the mad dogs are shot.”
The interpreter translated, and when the chief had ceased replying, Tom and the others were told:
“Plenty bark git. Plenty much. Yo’ go away with yo’ lightning. All right now.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I keeled over that dog,” Tom said. “It was the best object lesson I could give them.~’
And from then on there was no more trouble in this district about getting a supply of the medicinal bark.
A week passed and Professor Bumper was no nearer finding the lost city than he had been at first. Reluctantly, he returned to the tunnel camp to get more provisions.
“And then I’ll start out again,” he said.
“We’ll go with you some other time,” promised Tom. “But now I expect I’ll have to get another blast ready.”
He found the debris brought down by the second one all removed, and in a few days, preparations for exploding more of the powder were under way.
Many holes had been drilled in the face of the cliff of hard rock, and the charges tamped in. Electric wires connected them, and they were run out to the tunnel mouth where the switch was located.
This was done late one afternoon, and it was planned to set off the blast at the close of the working day, to allow all night for the fumes to be blown away by the current of air in the tunnel.
“Get the men out, Tim,” said Tom, when all was ready.
“All right, sor,” was the answer, and the Irish foreman went back toward the far end of the bore to tell the last shift of laborers to come out so the blast could be set off.
But in a little while Tim came running back with a queer look on his face.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom. “Why didn’t you bring the men with you?”
“Because, sor, they’re not there!”
“Not in the tunnel? Why, they were working there a little while ago, when I made the last connection!”
“I know they were, but they’ve disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yis sir. There’s no way out except at this end an’ you didn’t see thim come out: did you?”
“Then they’ve disappeared! That’s all there is to it! Bad goin’s on, thot’s what it is, sor! Bad!” and Tim shook his head mournfully.
Chapter XV
Frightened Indians
“There must be some mistake,” said Tom, wondering if the Irish foreman were given to joking. Yet he did not seem that kind of man.
“Mistake? How can there be a mistake, sor? I wint in there to tell th’ black imps t’ come out, but they’re not there to tell!”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Job Titus, coming out of the office near the tunnel mouth. “What’s wrong, Tom?”
“Why, I sent Tim in to tell the men to come out, as I was going to set off a blast, but he says the men aren’t in there. And I’m sure the last shift hasn’t come out.”
By this time Koku, Mr. Damon and Walter Titus had come up to find out what the trouble was.
“The min have disappeared–that’s all there is to it!” Tim said.
“Perhaps they have missed their way–the lights may have gone out, and they might have wandered into some abandoned cutting,” suggested Tom.
“There aren’t any abandoned cuttin’s,” declared Tim. “It’s a straight bore, not a shaft of any kind. I’ve looked everywhere, and th’ min aren’t there I tell ye!”
“Are the lights going?” asked Job. “You might have missed them in the dark, Tim.”
“The lights are going all right, Mr. Titus,” said the young man in charge of the electrical arrangements. “The dynamo hasn’t been stopped to-day.”
“Come on, we’ll have a look,” proposed Walter Titus. “There must be some mistake. Hold back the blast, Tom.”
“All right,” and the young inventor disconnected the electrical detonating switch. “I’ll come along and have a look too,” he added. “Don’t let anybody meddle with the wires, Jack,” he said to the young Englishman who was in charge of the dynamo.
Into the dimly-lit tunnel advanced the party of investigators, with Tim Sullivan in the lead.
“Not a man could I find!” he said, murmuring to himself. “Not a man! An’ I mind th’ time in Oireland whin th’ little people made vanish a whole village like this, jist bekase ould Mike Maguire uprooted a bed of shamrocks.”
“That’s enough of your superstitions, Tim,” warned Job Titus. “If some of the other Indians hear you go on this way they’ll desert as they did once before.”
“Did they do that?” asked Tom.
“Yes, we had trouble that way when we first began the work. The place here was a howling wilderness then, and there were lots of pumas around.
“A puma is a small sized lion, you know, not specially dangerous unless cornered. Well, some of the men had their families here with them, and a couple of children disappeared. The story got started that there was a big puma–the king of them all–carrying off the little ones, and my brother and I awoke one morning to find every laborer missing. They departed bag and baggage. Afraid of the pumas.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, we organized ourselves and our white helpers into a hunting party and killed a lot of the beasts. There wasn’t any big one though.”
“And what had become of the children?”
“They weren’t eaten at all. They had wandered off into the woods, and some natives found them and took care of them. Eventually, they got back home. But it was a long while before we could persuade the Indians to come back. Since then we haven’t had any trouble, and I don’t want Tim, with his superstitious fancies, to start any.”
“But the min are gone!” insisted the Irish foreman, who had listened to this story as he and the others walked along.
“We’ll find them,” declared Mr. Titus.
But though they looked all along the big shaft, and though the place was well lighted by extra lamps that were turned on when the investigation started, no trace could be found of the workmen, who had been left in the tunnel to finish tamping the blast charges. The party reached the rocky heading, in the face of which the powerful explosive had been placed, and not an Indian was in sight. Nor, as far as could be told, was there any side niche, or blind shaft, in which they could be hiding.
Sometimes, when small blasts were set off, the men would go behind a projecting shoulder of rock to wait until the charge had been fired, but now none was in such a refuge.
“It is queer,” admitted Walter Titus. “Where can the men have gone?”