Tom Swift in the City of Gold Part 1

Tom Swift in the City of Gold, or, Marvelous Adventures Underground.

by Victor Appleton.

CHAPTER I

WONDERFUL NEWS

"Letter for you, Tom Swift."

"Ah, thanks, Mr. Wilson. This is the first mail I've had this week.

You've been neglecting me," and the young inventor took the missive which the Shopton postman handed to him over the gate, against which Tom was leaning one fine, warm Spring day.

"Well, I get around as often as I can, Tom. You're not home a great deal, you know. When you're not off in your sky racer seeing how much you can beat the birds, you're either hunting elephants in Africa, or diving down under the ocean, or out in a diamond mine, or some such out-of-the-way place as that. No wonder you don't get many letters. But that one looks as if it had come quite a distance."

"So it does," agreed Tom, looking closely at the stamp and postmark.

"What do you make out of it, Mr. Wilson?" and then, just as many other persons do when getting a strange letter, instead of opening it to see from whom it has come, Tom tried to guess by looking at the handwriting, and trying to decipher the faint postmark. "What does that say?" and the young inventor pointed to the black stamp.

"Hum, looks like Jube--no, that first letter's a 'K' I guess," and Mr. Wilson turned it upside down, thinking that would help.

"I made it out a 'G'," said Tom.

"So it is. A 'G'--you're right. Gumbo--Twamba--that's what it is--Gumba Twamba. I can make it out now all right."

"Well, where, for the love of my old geography, is Gumba Twamba?"

asked the lad with a laugh.

"You've got me, Tom. Must be in Sweden, or Holland, or some of those foreign countries. I don't often handle letters from there, so I can't say. Why don't you open your letter and find out who its from?"

"That's what I ought to have done at first." Quickly Tom ripped open the much worn and frayed envelope, through the cracks of which some parts of the letter already could be seen, showing that it had traveled many thousand miles before it got to the village of Shopton, in New York State.

"Well, I've got to be traveling on," remarked the postman, as Tom started to read the mysterious letter. "I'm late as it is. You can tell me the news when I pa.s.s again, Tom."

But the young inventor did not reply. He was too much engaged in reading the missive, for, no sooner had he perused the first few lines than his eyes began to open wide in wonder, and his manner plainly indicated his surprise. He read the letter once, and then over again, and when he had finished it a second time, he made a dash for the house.

"I say dad!" cried Tom. "This is great! Great news here! Where are you, dad? Say, Mrs. Baggert," he called as he saw the motherly housekeeper, "where's father? I've got great news for him? Where is he?"

"Out in the shop, I think. I believe Mr. Damon is with him."

"And blessing everything as usual, from his hat to his shoe laces, I'll wager," murmured Tom as he made his way to the shop where his father, also an inventor like himself, spent much of his time.

"Well, well, I'm glad Mr. Damon is here, for he'll be interested in this."

Tom fairly rushed into the building, much of the s.p.a.ce of which, was taken up by machinery, queer tools and odd devices, many of them having to do with the manufacture of aeroplanes, for Tom had as many of them as some people have of automobiles.

"I say, dad!" cried Tom, waving the letter above his head, "what do you think of this? Listen to--"

"Easy there now, Tom! Easy, my boy, or you'll oblige me to do all my work over again," and an aged man, beside whom a younger one was standing, held up a hand of caution, while with the other hand he was adjusting some delicate piece of machinery.

"What are you doing?" demanded the son.

"Bless my scarf pin!" exclaimed the other man--Mr. Wakefield Damon--"Bless my rubbers, Tom Swift! What SHOULD your father be doing but inventing something new, as he always is. I guess he's working on his new gyroscope, though it is only a guess, for he hasn't said ten words to me since I came out to talk to him. But that's like all inventors, they--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Damon," spoke Mr. Swift with a smile, "I'm sure--"

"Say, can't you listen to me for five minutes?" pleaded Tom. "I've got some great news--simply great, and your gyroscope can wait, dad.

Listen to this letter," and he prepared to read it.

"Who's it from?" asked Mr. Damon.

"Mr. Jacob Illingway, the African missionary whom you and I rescued, together with his wife, from the red pygmies!" cried Tom. "Think of that! Of all persons to get a letter from, and SUCH a letter! SUCH news in it. Why, it's simply great! You remember Mr. and Mrs.

Illingway; don't you Mr. Damon? How we went to Africa after elephant's tusks, with Mr. Durban the hunter, and how we got the missionaries away from those little savages in my airs.h.i.+p--don't you remember?"

"I should say I did!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "Bless my watch chain--but they were regular imps--the red Pygmies I mean, not the missionaries. But what is Mr. Illingway writing to you about now, Tom? I know he sent you several letters since we came back from Africa. What's the latest news?"

"I'll tell you," replied the young inventor, sitting down on a packing box. "It would take too long to read the letter so I'll sum it up, and you can go over it later."

"To be brief, Mr. Illingway tells of a wonderful golden image that is wors.h.i.+ped by a tribe of Africans in a settlement not far from Gumba Twamba, where he is stationed. It's an image of solid gold--"

"Solid gold!" interrupted Mr. Swift.

"Yes, dad, and about three feet high," went on Tom, referring to the letter to make sure. "It's heavy, too, no hollows in it, and these Africans regard it as a G.o.d. But that's not the strangest part of it. Mr. Illingway goes on to say that there is no gold in that part of Africa, and for a time he was at a loss how to account for the golden image. He made some inquiries and learned that it was once the property of a white traveler who made his home with the tribe that now wors.h.i.+ps the image of gold. This traveler, whose name Mr.

Illingway could not find out, was much liked by the Africans. He taught them many things, doctored them when they were sick, and they finally adopted him into the tribe."

"It seems that he tried to make them better, and wanted them to become Christians, but they clung to their own beliefs until he died. Then, probably thinking to do his memory honor, they took the golden image, which was among his possessions, and set it up as a G.o.d."

"Bless my hymn book!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "What did they do that for?"

"This white man thought a great deal of the image," said Tom, again referring to the letter, "and the Africans very likely imagined that, as he was so good to them, some of his virtues had pa.s.sed into the gold. Then, too, they may have thought it was part of his religion, and as he had so often wanted them to adopt his beliefs, they reasoned out that they could now do so, by wors.h.i.+ping the golden G.o.d."

"Anyhow, that's what they did, and the image is there to-day, in that far-off African village. But I haven't got to the real news yet. The image of solid gold is only a part of it."

"Before this traveler died he told some of the more intelligent natives that the image had come from a far-off underground city--a regular city of gold--nearly everything in it that was capable of being made of metal, being constructed of the precious yellow gold.

The golden image was only one of a lot more like it, some smaller and some larger--"

"Not larger, Tom, not larger, surely!" interrupted Mr. Swift. "Why, my boy, think of it! An image of solid gold, bigger even than this one Mr. Illingway writes of, which he says is three feet high. Why, if there are any larger they must be nearly life size, and think of a solid gold statue as large as a man--it would weigh--well, I'm afraid, to say how much, and be worth--why, Tom, it's impossible. It would be worth millions--all the wealth of a world must be in the underground city. It's impossible Tom, my boy!"

"Well, that may be," agreed Tom. "I'm not saying it's true. Mr.

Illingway is telling only what he heard."

"Go on! Tell some more," begged Mr. Damon. "Bless my s.h.i.+rt studs, this is getting exciting!"

"He says that the traveler told of this underground city of gold,"

went on Tom, "though he had never been there himself. He had met a native who had located it, and who had brought out some of the gold, including several of the images, and one he gave to the white man in return for some favor. The white man took it to Africa with him."

"But where is this underground city, Tom?" asked Mr. Swift. "Doesn't Mr. Illingway give you any idea of its location."

"He says it is somewhere in Mexico," explained the lad. "The Africans haven't a very good idea of geography, but some of the tribesmen whom the white traveler taught, could draw rude maps, and Mr. Illingway had a native sketch one for him, showing as nearly as possible where the city of gold is located."