“Of course this is contingent upon your invention being a success, Mr. Swift. Your broadcasting of songs and music must be clear, the images of the performers on the attached screen must be very plain, not shadowy forms, and the two must synchronize. You must remember that we have not seen your invention. All we know is what we have heard of it.”
“From your spies, doubtless,” Tom responded bitterly. “And they could find out very little. But don’t worry. The machine must be perfect before I put it on the market. I am going to have a final test and you may witness it in person or you may send any one you like to report.”
“Some of us will probably be on hand when you give a final showing,” said Mr. X. “And now, as it is getting late, I suggest that we adjourn. We want to get back to our homes and you do also, I suppose, Mr. Swift?”
“Yes, I don’t feel like spending another night on Rattlesnake Island,” replied Tom, with a smile. “One was enough. I’ll call in my friends and you can come to my final test—say a week from to-night in my private laboratory.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. X.
Tom bade the men good-night and went out into the darkness, leaving the conspirators to growl somewhat among themselves at having been beaten by a mere youth.
“At the same time,” said Mr. X, “I can’t help admiring Tom Swift for the manner in which he turned the tables on us.”
“That’s right,” chimed in another. “He’s the pluckiest fellow I ever had any dealings with. And to think, if we’d persisted, he could have had us all arrested and our names and our pictures would have been in the papers. Whew!”
“Oh my!” wailed Mr. B. “It’s cost us a pretty penny, but maybe it will be worth it.”
Meanwhile Tom, outside the old house, was signaling with his flashlight to call his friends in from their posts about the place.