“What do you think they are up to, dad?” asked Tom.

“I think they are trying to get hold of my turbine motor, Tom.  You know I told you that the financiers were disappointed in the turbine motor they bought of another inventor.  It does not work.  To get back the money they spent in building an expensive plant they must have a motor that is successful.  Hence their efforts to get control of mine.  I don’t know whether I told you or not, but some time ago I refused a very good offer for certain rights in my invention.  I knew it was worth more.  The offer came through Smeak & Katch, the lawyers, and when I refused it they seemed much disappointed.  I think now that this same firm, and the financiers who have employed them, are trying by all the means in their power to get possession of my ideas, if not the invention and model itself.”

“What can you do, dad?”

“Well, I must think.  I certainly must take some means to protect myself.  I have had trouble before, but never any like this.  I did not think those men would be so unscrupulous.”

“Do you know their names?”

“No, only from that telegram we found; the one which the first stranger dropped.  One of them must be Anson Morse.  Who the others are I don’t know.  But now I must make some plans to foil these sharpers.  I may have to call on you for help, Tom.”

“And I’ll be ready any time you call on me, dad,” responded Tom, drawing himself up.  “Can I do anything for you right away?”

“No; I must think out a plan.”

“Then I am going to change my motor-cycle a bit.  I’ll put some more improvements on it.”

“And I will write some letters to my lawyers in Washington and ask their advice.”  It took Tom the remainder of that day, and part of the next, to arrange the gasolene and spark control of his machine to his satisfaction.  He had to make two small levers and some connecting rods.  This he did in his own particular machine shop, which was fitted up with a lathe and other apparatus.  The lathe was run by power coming from a small engine, which was operated by an engineer, an elderly man to whom Mr. Swift had given employment for many years.  He was Garret Jackson, and he kept so close to his engine and boiler-room that he was seldom seen outside of it except when the day’s work was done.

One afternoon, a few days after the unsuccessful chase after the fugitive had taken place, Tom went out for a spin on his motor-cycle.  He found that the machine worked much better, and was easier to control.  He rode about fifteen miles away from home, and then returned.  As he entered the yard he saw, standing on the drive, a ramshackle old wagon, drawn by a big mule, which seemed, at the time Tom observed him, to be asleep.

“I’ll wager that’s Boomerang,” said Tom aloud, and the mule opened its eyes, wiggled its ears and started forward.