AN APPEAL FOR AID

Tom Swift stepped from the door of the machine shop, where he was at work making some adjustments to the motor of his airship, and glanced down the road.  He saw a cloud of dust, which effectually concealed whatever was causing it.

“Some one must be in a hurry this morning,” the lad remarked, “Looks like a motor speeding along.  My! but we certainly do need rain,” he added, as he looked up toward the sky.  “It’s very dusty.  Well, I may as well get back to work.  I’ll take the airship out for a flight this afternoon, if the wind dies down a bit.”

The young inventor, for Tom Swift himself had built the airship, as well as several other crafts for swift locomotion, turned to re-enter the shop.

Something about the approaching cloud of dust, however, held his attention.  He glanced more intently at it.

“If it’s an automobile coming along,” he murmured, “it’s moving very slowly, to make so much fuss.  And I never saw a motor-cycle that would kick up as much sand, and not speed along more.  It ought to be here by now.  I wonder what it can be?”

The cloud of highway dirt rolled along, making some progress toward Tom’s house and the group of shops and other buildings surrounding it.  But, as the lad had said, the dust did not move at all quickly in comparison to any of the speedy machines that might be causing it.  And the cloud seemed momentarily to grow thicker and thicker.

“I wonder if it could be a miniature tornado, or a cyclone or whirlwind?” and Tom spoke aloud, a habit of his when he was thinking, and had no one to talk to.  “Yet it can hardly be that.” he went on.  “Guess I’ll watch and see what it is.”

Nearer and nearer came the dust cloud.  Tom peered anxiously ahead, a puzzled look on his face.  A few seconds later there came from the midst of the obscuring cloud a voice, exclaiming: 

“G’lang there now, Boomerang!  Keep to’ feet a-movin’ an’ we sho’ will make a record.  ’Tain’t laik we was a autermobiler, er a electricity car, but we sho’ hab been goin’ sence we started.  Yo’ sho’ done yo’se’f proud t’day, Boomerang, an’ I’se gwine t’ keep mah promise an’ gib yo’ de bestest oats I kin find.  Ah reckon Massa Tom Swift will done say we brought dis yeah message t’ him as quick as anybody could.”

Then there followed the sound of hoofbeats on the dusty road, and the rattle of some many-jointed vehicle, with loose springs and looser wheels.

“Eradicate Sampson!” exclaimed Tom.  “But who would ever think that the colored man’s mule could get up such speed as that cloud of dust indicates.  His mule’s feet must be working overtime, but he goes backward about as often as he moves forward.  That accounts for it.  There’s lots of dust, but not much motion.”

Once more, from the midst of the ball-like cloud of dirt came the voice of the colored man: