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Page 17
"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."
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