Chapter Five

Mr. Berg is Suspicious



Not for long did the young inventor endeavor to break his

way out of the water-ballast tank by striking the heavy

sides of it. Tom realized that this was worse than useless.

He listened intently, but could hear nothing. Even the

retreating footsteps of Andy Foger were inaudible.



"This certainly is a pickle!" exclaimed Tom aloud. "I

can't understand how he ever got here. He must have traced

us after we went to Shopton in the airship the last time.

Then he sneaked in here. Probably he saw me enter, but how

could he knew enough to work the worm gear and close the

door? Andy has had some experience with machinery, though,

and one of the vaults in the bank where his father is a

director closed just like this tank. That's very likely how

he learned about it. But I've got to do something else

besides thinking of that sneak, Andy. I've got to get out of

here. Let's see if I can work the gear from inside."



Before he started, almost, Tom knew that it would be

impossible. The tank was made to close from the interior of

the submarine, and the heavy door, built to withstand the

pressure of tons of water, could not be forced except by the

proper means.



"No use trying that," concluded the lad, after a tiring

attempt to force back the sliding door with his hands. "I've

got to call for help."



He shouted until the vibrations in the confined space made

his ears ring, and the mere exertion of raising his voice to

the highest pitch made his heart beat quickly. Yet there

came no response. He hardly expected that there would be

any, for with his father and Mr. Sharp away, the engineer

absent on an errand, and Mrs. Baggert in the house some

distance off, there was no one to hear his calls for help,

even if they had been capable of penetrating farther than

the extent of the shed, where the under-water craft had been

constructed.



"I've got to wait until some of them come out here,"

thought Tom. "They'll be sure to release me and make a

search. Then it will be easy enough to call to them and tell

them where I am, once they are inside the shed. But--" He

paused, for a horrible fear came over him. "Suppose they

should come--too late?" The tank was airtight. There was

enough air in it to last for some time, but, sooner or

later, it would no longer support life. Already, Tom

thought, it seemed oppressive, though probably that was his

imagination.



"I must get out!" he repeated frantically. "I'll die in

here soon."



Again he tried to shove back the steel door. Then he

repeated his cries until be was weary. No one answered him.

He fancied once he could hear footsteps in the shed, and

thought, perhaps, it was Andy, come back to gloat over him.

Then Tom knew the red-haired coward would not dare venture

back. We must do Andy the justice to say that he never

realized that he was endangering Tom's life. The bully had

no idea the tank was airtight when he closed it. He had seen

Tom enter and a sudden whim came to him to revenge himself.



But that did not help the young inventor any. There was no

doubt about it now--the air was becoming close. Tom had been

imprisoned nearly two hours, and as he was a healthy, strong

lad, he required plenty of oxygen. There was certainly less

than there had been in the tank. His head began to buzz, and

there was a ringing in his ears.



Once more he fell upon his knees, and his fingers sought

the small projections of the gear on the inside of the door

He could no more budge the mechanism than a child could open

a burglar-proof vault.



"It's no use," he moaned, and he sprawled at full length

on the floor of the tank, for there the air was purer. As he

did so his fingers touched something. He started as they

closed around the handle of a big monkey wrench. It was one

he had brought into the place with him. Imbued with new hope

be struck a match and lighted his lantern, which he had

allowed to go out as it burned up too much of the oxygen. By

the gleam of it he looked to see if there were any bolts or

nuts he could loosen with the wrench, in order to slide the

door back. It needed but a glance to show him the futility

of this.



"It's no go," he murmured, and he let the wrench fall to

the floor. There was a ringing, clanging sound, and as it

smote his ears Tom sprang up with an exclamation.



"That's the thing!" he cried. "I wonder I didn't think of

it before. I can signal for help by pounding on the sides of

the tank with the wrench. The blows will carry a good deal

farther than my voice would." Every one knows how far the

noise of a boiler shop, with hammers falling on steel

plates, can be heard; much farther than can a human voice.



Tom began a lusty tattoo on the metal sides of the tank.

At first he merely rattled out blow after blow, and then, as

another thought came to him, he adopted a certain plan. Some

time previous, when he and Mr. Sharp had planned their trip

in the air, the two had adopted a code of signals. As it was

difficult in a high wind to shout from one end of the

airship to the other, the young inventor would sometimes

pound on the pipe which ran from the pilot house of the Red

Cloud to the engine-room. By a combination of numbers,

simple messages could be conveyed. The code included a call

for help. Forty-seven was the number, but there had never

been any occasion to use it.



Tom remembered this now. At once he ceased his

indiscriminate hammering, and began to beat out regularly--

one, two, three, four--then a pause, and seven blows would

be given. Over and over again he rang out this number--forty

seven--the call for help.



"If Mr. Sharp only comes back he will hear that, even in

the house," thought poor Tom "Maybe Garret or Mrs. Baggert

will hear it, too, but they won't know what it means.

They'll think I'm just working on the submarine."



It seemed several hours to Tom that he pounded out that

cry for aid, but, as he afterward learned, it was only a

little over an hour. Signal after signal he sent vibrating

from the steel sides of the tank. When one arm tired he

would use the other. He grew weary, his head was aching, and

there was a ringing in his ears; a ringing that seemed as if

ten thousand bells were jangling out their peals, and he

could barely distinguish his own pounding.



Signal after signal he sounded. It was becoming like a

dream to him, when suddenly, as he paused for a rest, he

heard his name called faintly, as if far away.



"Tom! Tom! Where are you?"



It was the voice of Mr. Sharp. Then followed the tones of

the aged inventor.



"My poor boy! Tom, are you still alive?"



"Yes, dad! In the starboard tank!" the lad gasped out, and

then he lost his senses. When he revived he was lying on a

pile of bagging in the submarine shop, and his father and

the aeronaut were bending over him.



"Are you all right, Tom?" asked Mr. Swift.



"Yes--I--I guess so," was the hesitating answer. "Yes,"

the lad added, as the fresh air cleared his head. "I'll be

all right pretty soon. Have you seen Andy Foger?"



"Did he shut you in there?" demanded Mr. Swift.



Tom nodded.



"I'll have him arrested!" declared Mr. Swift "I'll go to

town as soon as you're in good shape again and notify the

police."



"No, don't," pleaded Tom. "I'll take care of Andy myself.

I don't really believe he knew how serious it was. I'll

settle with him later, though."



"Well, it came mighty near being serious," remarked Mr.

Sharp grimly. "Your father and I came back a little sooner

than we expected, and as soon as I got near the house I

heard your signal. I knew what it was in a moment. There

were Mrs. Baggert and Garret talking away, and when I asked

them why they didn't answer your call they said they thought

you were merely tinkering with the machinery. But I knew

better. It's the first time we ever had a use for 'forty-

seven,' Tom."



"And I hope it will be the last," replied the young

inventor with a faint smile. "But I'd like to know what Andy

Foger is doing in this neighborhood."



Tom was soon himself again and able to go to the house,

where he found Mrs. Baggert brewing a big basin of catnip

tea, under the impression that it would in some way be good

for his. She could not forgive herself for not having

answered his signal, and as for Mr. Jackson, he had started

for a doctor as soon as he learned that Tom was shut up in

the tank. The services of the medical man were canceled by

telephone, as there was no need for him, and the engineer

came back to the house.



Tom was fully himself the next day, and aided his father

and Mr. Sharp in putting the finishing touches to the

Advance. It was found that some alteration was required in

the auxiliary propellers, and this, much to the regret of

the young inventor, would necessitate postponing the trial a

few days.



"But we'll have her in the water next Friday." promised

Mr. Swift.



"Aren't you superstitious about Friday?" asked the

balloonist.



"Not a bit of it," replied the aged inventor. "Tom," he

added, "I wish you would go in the house and get me the roll

of blueprints you'll find on my desk."



As the lad neared the cottage he saw, standing in front of

the place, a small automobile. A man had just descended

from it, and it needed but a glance to show that he was Mr.

Addison Berg.



"Ah, good morning, Mr. Swift," greeted Mr. Berg. "I wish

to see your father, but as I don't wish to lay myself open

to suspicions by entering the shop, perhaps you will ask him

to step here."



"Certainly," answered the lad, wondering why the agent had

returned. Getting the blueprints, and asking Mr. Berg to sit

down on the porch, Tom delivered the message.



"You come back with me, Tom," said his father. "I want you

to be a witness to what he says. I'm not going to get into

trouble with these people."



Mr. Berg came to the point at once.



"Mr. Swift," he said, "I wish you would reconsider your

determination not to enter the Government trials. I'd like

to see you compete. So would my firm."



"There is no use going over that again," replied the aged

inventor. "I have another object in view now than trying for

the Government prize. What it is I can't say, but it may

develop in time--if we are successful," and he looked at

his son, smiling the while.



Mr. Berg tried to argue, but it was of no avail Then he

changed his manner, and said:



"Well, since you won't, you won't, I suppose. I'll go back

and report to my firm. Have you anything special to do this

morning?" he went on to Tom.



"Well, I can always find something to keep me busy,"

replied the lad, "but as for anything special--"



"I thought perhaps you'd like to go for a trip in my

auto," interrupted Mr. Berg. "I had asked a young man who is

stopping at the same hotel where I am to accompany me, but

he has unexpectedly left, and I don't like to go alone. His

name was--let me see. I have a wretched memory for names,

but it was something like Roger or Moger."



"Foger!" cried Tom. "Was it Andy Foger?"



"Yes, that was it. Why, do you know him?" asked Mr. Berg

in some surprise.



"I should say so," replied Tom. "He was the cause of what

might have resulted in something serious for me," and the

lad explained about being imprisoned in the tank.



"You don't tell me!" cried Mr. Berg. "I had no idea he was

that kind of a lad. You see, his father is one of the

directors of the firm by whom I am employed. Andy came from

home to spend a few weeks at the seaside, and stopped at the

same hotel that I did. He went off yesterday afternoon, and

I haven't seen him since, though he promised to go for a

ride with me. He must have come over here and entered your

shop unobserved. I remember now he asked me where the

submarine was being built that was going to compete with our

firm's, and I told him. I didn't think he was that kind of

a lad. Well, since he's probably gone back home, perhaps you

will come for a ride with me, Tom."



"I'm afraid I can't go, thank you," answered the lad. "We

are very busy getting our submarine in shape for a trial.

But I can imagine why Andy left so hurriedly. He probably

learned that a doctor had been summoned for me, though, as

it happened, I didn't need one. But Andy probably got

frightened at what he had done, and left. I'll make him

more sorry, when I meet him."



"Don't blame you a bit," commented Mr. Berg. "Well, I must

be getting back."



He hastened out to his auto, while Tom and his father

watched the agent.



"Tom, never trust that man," advised the aged inventor

solemnly.



"Just what I was about to remark," said his son. "Well,

let's get back to work. Queer that he should come here

again, and it's queer about Andy Foger."



Father and son returned to the machine shop, while Mr.

Berg puffed away in his auto. A little later, Tom having

occasion to go to a building near the boundary line of the

cottage property which his father had hired for the season,

saw, through the hedge that bordered it, an automobile

standing in the road. A second glance showed him that it was

Mr. Berg's machine. Something had gone wrong with it, and

the agent had alighted to make an adjustment.



The young inventor was close to the man, though the latter

was unaware of his presence.



"Hang it all!" Tom heard Mr. Berg exclaim to himself. "I

wonder what they can be up to? They won't enter the

Government contests, and they won't say why. I believe

they're up to some game, and I've got to find out what it

is. I wonder if I couldn't use this Foger chap?"



"He seems to have it in for this Tom Swift," Mr. Berg went

on, still talking to himself, though not so low but that Tom

could hear him. "I think I'll try it. I'll get Andy Foger to

sneak around and find out what the game is. He'll do it, I

know."



By this time the auto was in working order again, and the

agent took his seat and started off.



"So that's how matters lie, eh?" thought Tom. "Well, Mr.

Berg, we'll be doubly on the lookout for you after this. As

for Andy Foger, I think I'll make him wish he'd never locked

me in that tank. So you expect to find out our 'game,' eh,

Mr. Berg? Well, when you do know it, I think it will

astonish you. I only hope you don't learn what it is until

we get at that sunken treasure, though."



But alas for Tom's hopes. Mr. Berg did learn of the object

of the treasure-seekers, and sought to defeat them, as we

shall learn as our story proceeds.

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