CHAPTER XVII—“DRIVE WHERE WE TELL YOU!”
It is now time to return to the bedside of Ralph Ingersoll, in the home of Dr. Tallman. It was evening and Tom, as he had promised, had returned to hear Ralph’s story and see what light he could throw on the fate of Jack and the stolen model.
Tom returned alone, Mr. Bowler having received an urgent telephone message on returning home, which commanded his presence at his office that evening. So Tom had driven out alone in the Flying Road Racer to have a chat with Ralph.
He found the lad sitting up in bed, much better, thanks to the doctor’s ministrations, and eager to see his friend. After first greetings had been exchanged, Ralph lost no time in plunging into his story. As our readers know, the lad had been surprised and carried off by the same two rascals who had stolen the model while he was left on guard at the wood road. Apparently, they kidnapped him on account of his desperate resistance. At any rate, he was bundled into the yellow auto, and hurried off down the wood road which, as Jack had surmised, joined the main thoroughfare further on.
Terrified half to death by the men’s dire threats to kill him if he made any outcry, the poor lad told how they had taken him to the room in the old rookery, which, it appeared, was used as a rendezvous for hard characters of all descriptions—which explained the secret hiding-place in the wall.
Tom, who had been warned by the doctor not to excite his patient, thought it best to let the lad tell his story in his own way, and therefore did not put any questions regarding Jack. It can be imagined, then, with what a cruel shock he heard of the lad’s being abandoned to his fate in the burning building, after the flight of Rook and Radcliff with the model and Ralph.
He sank his head in his hands, quite unable to speak for some moments. As he knew, from what the policeman had told him that morning, that the building had been gutted by the fire, he found it impossible to cherish a hope that somehow Jack might have been saved. When he grew calmer Ralph went on with his narrative.
It appeared that after the men had fled from the blazing building they made their way directly to a garage where the yellow car had been put up. This place was not, properly speaking, a garage at all, but a stable in the low part of town, kept by friends of the rascally pair. Here they spent the rest of the night, sleeping in a hayloft.
During their passage through the streets Ralph was given no opportunity to appeal to passers-by. Jake Rook’s threats of what would happen to him if he did alarmed him far too effectually for him to disobey the ruffian’s orders to keep silent.
That morning had been spent by Jake Rook in active work of some sort. At any rate, Ralph said he had gone out early, after writing several letters in a sort of office attached to the stable. As he left the place to post them he had dropped one unnoticed, and, as Radcliff’s attention happened also to be distracted at that moment, Ralph had picked it up.
All that morning and the early part of the afternoon were spent in the stable and then, after Jake Rook’s return, the auto was run out and Ralph ordered to get into it with his two guardians. He dared not offer any opposition and soon the trio, skirting the city by back streets, were driving along a country road.
“We came to a place where there was a bridge,” said Ralph, “and the men stopped the car there. I heard them say they were going to some place up the creek that the bridge crossed.
“They both got out of the car and one of them took the model out of the box and looked at it to see if it had been damaged, for we had come over some pretty rough roads.
“The engine of the car had been left running, though the clutch was out, and I thought that maybe it was my chance to escape. I knew a little about autos, for that circus gang had one once. So I put my foot on what I thought was the clutch pedal, and the machine began to move off. But it wasn’t going very fast and Jake Rook jumped on the running board and pulled me clear out of the car.
“He fell over as he did so, and we both rolled into the road. Before he could get up again the car was out of sight. Rook was so mad that he picked me up round the waist and ran to the rail of the bridge with me and—and that’s all I remember,” said Ralph, bringing his narration to a close.
It cleared up many points which had been enigmas, and Tom told Ralph how they had found him.
“And just to think,” he exclaimed bitterly, “that it wasn’t so very long before that that those ruffians made off up the creek. Oh! If only we could have caught them!”
“Why don’t you look at that letter I picked up?” suggested Ralph presently.
This was a surprise to Tom. In his grief over Jack’s fate he had forgotten all about the letter which Ralph had mentioned.
“That’s right, I’d forgotten you had it,” he said. “It may give us a clew. Where is it?”
“In the pocket of my coat. It’s hanging up over there on that hook.”
Tom lost no time in getting the missive from the garment Ralph indicated. It was addressed, in what was clearly meant to be a disguised hand, to Stephen Melville, No. 289 Wall Street, New York.
Tom tore the envelope open eagerly. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered with the same half printed writing that was on the envelope. The note was brief and very much to the point:
“Have got moddle and will take it to old Haskins place, as arranged. Will wate for you thar. Have also got boy who may be the Ingersoll kid you ware anxious about. Join us at Haskins place as soon as posibul.
“J. R.”
“Phew! I should say that this does give us a clew!” gasped Tom, having read the note, “but it doesn’t give us any line on poor old Jack, and I’d rather have that than fifty models. Hold on, though! If we can find those men and get them arrested that may help us to trace Jack. I’ll get right back to the city now and notify the police at once. The old Haskins place!” mused Tom. “That must mean some old house or mansion in the vicinity of that creek. I wish——”
But just then the recollection of Jack’s probable fate swept over the lad again and poor Tom fairly broke down. In the midst of his collapse Dr. Tallman came into the room. His face was radiant and he seemed excited.
“Someone wants to talk to you on the ’phone, Tom,” he said kindly.
“To me?” exclaimed Tom, looking amazed.
“Yes, somebody in Boston. The call is from Mr. Bowler’s office.”
Greatly wondering who could be calling him, except the lawyer, Tom hastened to the ’phone, which was in the hall outside the room where Ralph lay.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Tom picking up the receiver, “hullo! Who is it—What—Oh, glory!—It’s Jack!”
And Jack, indeed, it was. The sound of his voice brought into Tom’s heart the most joyous feeling he had ever known. He fairly skipped about with excitement as Jack hastily told him of his escape from the burning building, and how, the next day, he had been discovered more dead than alive by workmen in the warehouse. The men found him in a swoon, but rushed him off at once to the Emergency Hospital, where nourishment and stimulants were administered.
The hospital people communicated with Mr. Bowler as soon as they found out who Jack was; but, through the error of a clerk in his office, the message had not been transmitted properly to his house. When he reached his office that evening, in response to the summons already recorded, his amazement may be imagined when, instead of the client he had expected, the missing Jack Chadwick greeted him.
The joyous news was soon communicated to Ralph, whose peaked face lighted up wonderfully at the glorious intelligence. In spite of Dr. Tallman’s urgent request to him to stay and have some refreshment, Tom insisted that he must get back to Boston without delay. He was crazy with impatience to get the letter Ralph had so cleverly picked up into the hands of the police, and to clasp Jack’s hand again.
Ten minutes later Tom was off on one of the most pleasurable trips of his life; shortly before he had hardly dared to hope that Jack had escaped from the flames alive. He promised to return in the morning. As Dr. Tallman said good-by he added:
“By the way, I think I shall have something remarkable to tell you ere long about this young Ingersoll. He is not by any means just what you think he is.”
With which puzzling words Tom had to be content, for the good doctor refused to say more.
“What a wonderful day this has been,” mused Tom, as he spun along the road, his searchlight brightly illumining the road ahead of him. So intent was he on his pleasant thoughts that he was quite startled when suddenly, into the circle of light ahead, there stepped a human figure. Tom turned out quickly to avoid running over him. But as he did so he heard himself hailed in a sharp voice.
“Hey, mister!”
“Well, what is it?” demanded Tom.
“Give me and my pard a ride inter Boston?” Now, at any other time Tom would have refused such a request, for just at that date holdups of automobilists were frequent. But at the moment, he felt so joyous and at peace with all the world, that he stopped the car and told the men to get in.
As the car came to a standstill two dark figures stepped into it out of the black night.
“Get back in the tonneau,” ordered Tom, “and hold on tight, we’re going to make a fast run.”
“But not the kind of run you expect, Tom Jesson,” came in startling contrast to the whining, tramp-like tones in which he had been hailed from the roadside. “Turn this car around and drive where we tell you.”
The command was enforced by the pressure of something cold to the back of Tom’s neck. With a sharp thrill of fear, the boy realized that it was the muzzle of a pistol that pressed against him, and that the man who had uttered the command to turn about was Jake Rook.