Through Space to Mars, Roy Rockwood [e book reader pdf txt] 📗
- Author: Roy Rockwood
- Performer: -
Book online «Through Space to Mars, Roy Rockwood [e book reader pdf txt] 📗». Author Roy Rockwood
“That’ll be just the stuff for you, Andy,” cried Jack.
“Well, bring on your monsters,” said the old hunter, as he walked
toward the little lake, where wild ducks abounded. “I’ll try and
shoot some for you.”
“Andy takes everything as a matter of course,” went on Jack. “No
sort of animal seems to frighten him. If he should happen to
meet a dinotherium, such as used to live ages ago, he’d shoot it
first, and wonder about it afterward.”
“And we, are likely to meet with stranger beasts than
dinotheriums on Mars,” said Mr. Roumann.
“What am dat dinotherium?” asked Washington, entering the room at
that moment and catching the word.
“Washington wants to work that into his conversation!” exclaimed
Jack with a laugh. “But you want to be careful, Wash.”
“Why so, Massa Jack?”
“Because the dinotheriurn was a fearful beast. It was about
twenty feet long, lived in the water, and ate all sorts of
weeds.”
“How long you say he was?”
“About twenty feet.”
“He must eat a pow’ful sight ob weeds, den. Wish I had one.”
“What for?”
“Cause mah garden am jest oberrun wid weeds. If I had one ob dem
dinnasorriouses—”
“Dinotheriums,” corrected Jack.
“Dat’s what I said,” observed Washington with dignity. “If I had
one ob dem, I wouldn’t hab t’ weed mah garden. Where am one to
be possessed ob, Massa Jack?”
“I guess you were born a few million years too late,” was the
lad’s answer. “They lived a few centuries before the flood.”
“Good land!” exclaimed Washington, his eyes opening wide.
“Before Noah built de ark?”
“Yes.”
“Landy gracious! Dat animai’d be so old by dis time dat he
couldn’t chew de weeds after he pulled’em. Guess I’ll hab t’do
mah own weedin’.”
“I reckon you will,” added Mark.
They went back to the machine shop, and for the next week were
very busy over the Annihilator. It was beginning to assume
shape, and some of the machinery was installed.
One evening, after a hard day’s work, when they ‘were all seated
in the big living-room of Professor Henderson’s home, discussing
the progress they were making, Jack suddenly held up his hand for
silence.
“What’s the matter?”’ asked Mark.
“I thought I heard somebody walking around the house,” was the
stout lad’s answer.
“Maybe it’s Washington,” suggested the professor. “He generally
goes out to see if his chickens are shut up. He is very proud of
his flock of hens, and seems to hate to kill any for pot-pie.”
They all listened. Plainly there was some one or some animal
moving about under the windows of the living-room.
“That doesn’t sound like Washington,” said Mr. Roumann.
Just then the colored man, who had been upstairs, attending to
some of the housework (for he was the only servant the professor
kept), came down.
“Were you just outside, Washington?” asked Mr. Henderson.
“No, sah. I’se been upstairs, makin’ beds.”
“There it is again!” cried Jack suddenly.
The footsteps sounded more plainly, and one of the window
shutters rattled.
“Dat’s somebody after mah chickens!” exclaimed the colored man.
“I’se gwine t’ git him, too!”
He started for the door, but the professor held him back.
“Let Andy go,” he said. “He will make less noise than any of
us.”
He looked at the old hunter and nodded. Andy understood, and,
taking his gun from a corner, slipped out of a side door, making
no more noise than a cat.
The others, left in the living-room, waited in silence. They
could hear the stealthy footsteps, which, however, seemed now to
be moving away.
“I wonder who or what it can be?” murmured the professor. “This
is the second time some one has been sneaking around here. I
don’t like it.”
“It does look suspicious,” admitted Jack. “Do you suppose the
man you spoke of, Mr. Roumann, who you thought might try to
discover your secret, has traced you here, and is endeavoring to
steal it?”
“No, I hardly think so. I took good care to conceal my
movements, and not even my closest friends know that I am here
with Professor Henderson, making a projectile, the trip of which
will astonish the world. No, I think this must be some other
person.”
“It’s a pusson after mah chickens!” insisted Washington. “If
yo’ll allow me, perfesser, t’ project mahself inter de promixity
of his inner consciousness—”
“No, you just stay here,” decided Mr. Henderson. “You might get
into trouble if you went out and tried conclusions with a thicken
thief, which I suppose is what you are trying to say you want to
do.”
“Dat’s what I did say, perfesser.”
They could no longer hear the footsteps, but the silence of the
night was suddenly broken by the report of Andy’s gun.
“There! He’s shot at him!” cried Jack.
“I hope he disabled dat chicken stealer!” yelled the colored man.
“Anybody what’ll steal chickens—”
“Hush!” commanded Mr. Henderson.
Another shot rang out, and then the sound of footsteps could be
heard.
“He’s running past here,” called Jack, hurrying to the door.
He caught sight of a dark figure rushing past, and was about to
follow, but the outline was immediately lost in the darkness, and
Jack that it would be a useless move. Andy came up.
“Did you hit him?” cried Jack
“No. I only fired over his head,” replied the old hunter.
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know, but it was some man prowling around, and for no
good purpose, I take it.”
“Did he steal any ob my chickens?” asked Washington.
“No; he wasn’t near the coop.”
“I guess it was only a tramp,” said Mr. Henderson.
“I hope he doesn’t go near the machine shop,” added Mr. Roumann.
“Still, if he did, the two machinists sleeping there would hear
him.”
They returned to the room, and Andy stood his gun in a corner.
The weapon was seldom far from him.
“What was he doing when you saw him?” asked Mr. Henderson.
“Just sneaking along the window here as if listening.”
“Maybe he was trying to hear what we were talking about,”
suggested Jack.
“Or trying to discover my secret,” added Mr. Roumann quickly.
“Fortunately I never talk about the secret of the power. But I
shall be anxious about the machine shop.”
“Suppose we go out and take a look around it,” proposed Mark.
“Ned and Sam will know if any intruder has been sneaking around
there.”
They all went out where the Annihilator was in process of
building, but the machinists said they had not been disturbed,
and they were sure no one had stolen anything.
There was no further disturbance that night, but when Mr. Roumann
paid an early visit to the machine shop the next morning, he
uttered a cry of surprise.
“What is it?” asked Jack, who accompanied him.
“The plates—the plates of the Etherium motor!” cried the
scientist. “They have been stolen!”
A CRAZY MACHINIST
For a moment Jack stared at Mr. Roumann. He did not appreciate
the seriousness of the announcement. The scientist was hurrying
here and there, looking under benches and on tables for missing
plates.
“Do you mean the plates that make the motor go?” asked Jack.
“No, not those, but the plates from which the mysterious force is
projected into space—the plates that give the forward motion to
the projectile. They have been stolen. They were taken last
night, and the man Andy fired at stole them!”
“Will that prevent us from making the trip?”
“No. I have duplicate plates.”
“Then little harm is done.”
“No particular harm is done to the projectile, but I am afraid
that, with the plates in his possession, the man may discover the
secret of the power that I use. Oh, I should have locked them
up, but I thought they would be safe.”
“What has happened?” asked Mr. Henderson, entering the machine
shop at that moment. The scientist told him, and expressed his
fear.
“Do you really think there is any danger that the man, whoever he
was, will learn how to use the plates?” inquired the professor.
“Perhaps, and then, again, perhaps not. I think it will be very
difficult for him to work out the secret of the power from the
plates, for they are only a small part of the mechanism. Still,
he may do so. I am convinced now that this man is either the
same one of whom I stand in fear, or he is some one hired by him
to steal my secret.”
“Then we had better notify the police,” suggested Mark.
“No, that would never do,” answered Mr. Roumann. “I would have
to describe the plates, in order to have the authorities identify
them in the possession of the thief, and I do not care to do
that. No; the best plan will be to hasten work or the Annihilator,
and start for Mars before the thief can gain any advantage from the
plates. If he should succeed in discovering from the plate how to
make the power that is discharged in wireless currents, it will take
him a long time, and we can be away before then. Let us hasten our
work and start for Mars.”
“You say you have duplicates of the plates?” asked Jack.
“Yes. I was afraid lest something happen to one set, so I made
three. Well, it will do no good to worry, but I wish I had the
plates back.”
“I don’t see how he got them,” observed Mark. “There doesn’t
seem to be anything broken, to indicate how the thief got in, and
he certainly didn’t touch Professor Henderson’s live wire.”
Not a window or a door had been forced, and the two machinists,
who slept in the shop, declared they had heard no suspicious
sounds during the night. It was a mysterious theft, and there
seemed to be no means of solving it.
At Mr. Roumann’s suggestion they all increased their hours of
work on the Annihilator. They wanted to have it finished ahead
of the time set, and it seemed that this would be done.
Day after day, and far into the night, they labored. Bit by bit
the machinery was installed, the supplies were gathered together,
the great water tanks were built, to provide a supply of the
fluid in case of any accident to the distilling apparatus. The
Etherium motor was almost finished, and the other, motor, which
was to drive the Annihilator through the earth’s atmosphere, was
nearly ready to install. The steering apparatus necessitated
considerable labor, and when it was finished Amos Henderson
declared they had made a mistake, and would have to build it all
over again.
This lost them a week, and time was precious, as there was no
telling what the thief would do with the stolen plates.
“I tell you what, but we’re going to have a better ship than any
of the others we built,” remarked Jack one day, as he and Mark
were putting the finishing touches to the living-room.
“This isn’t a ship,” said Mark. “It’s a projectile.”
“I guess I can call it a ship if I want to,” was the retort.
“It’s going to sail through the air, and it’s an airship, of
course. Wait until you see the one I’m going to build when I get
that new gas invented.”
“I’ll not go with you,” said
Comments (0)