Tom was glad to note, by inspections of the various gages, that the Osprey was doing better in regard to speed than either the Falcon or the Eagle. She fairly roared and soared her way into the air after leaving Denver, carrying aloft, in the car beneath her, the young inventor and his friends.
Tom got the wireless apparatus to working and after some difficulty succeeded in establishing communication with his home, where he talked to Mrs. Baggert.
“Your father is lying down, taking a nap,” reported the housekeeper. “Yes, he’s all right. But a queer message came in over the local office telephone a little while ago, Tom. Wait, I’ll repeat it to you. I answered, because no one else was around, and I heard a voice saying: ‘Tell Tom Swift not to count his chickens before they’re hatched!’ And then a man’s voice laughed. I tried to find out who it was and where the message came from, but I couldn’t.”
“Oh, well, don’t worry about it,” Tom advised Mrs. Baggert, though he himself felt not a little anxious. “They’re still up to their old tricks, Ned,” Tom reported to his financial manager.
“Well, they can’t get at us while we’re up here,” Ned answered.
“No, but we aren’t at San Francisco yet, and something may happen there,” Tom replied. “I do hope they won’t make any more trouble for Dad.”
“He will be well looked after by Mrs. Baggert and the others,” was Ned’s consoling reply.
On and on roared the Osprey, like the great hawk whose name she bore, winging her way toward the great open space of the Pacific. The hours rolled around, and they were crossing a wild and desolate rocky region when suddenly the comparative stillness was broken by a loud, booming sound, as if of an explosion.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Ned, and Tom, who was making a log record of the trip, looked up apprehensively.
“Thunder!” answered Mr. Damon, who was sitting near one of the observation windows. “I just saw a flash of lightning. I guess we’re running into a storm.”