Tom Swift and His Photo Telephone or The Picture that Saved a Fortune
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want to warn you to be on the lookout." "Don't worry," said Tom. "Peters will get nothing from my father or me. We'll be on our guard. Not that I think he will try it, but it's just as well to be warned. I didn't like him from the moment he ran into me, and, now that I know what he has done to you, I like him still less. He won't get anything from me!" "I'm glad to hear you say so, Tom. I wish he'd gotten nothing out of me." "Are you sure you won't let my father help you, financially, Mr.
chance." But it seemed the only way. He was working against cunning men, and had to be as cunning as they. True, the man he hoped to capture, through the combination of his photo telephone and the phonograph, might go to some other instrument than one of those Tom had adjusted. But this could not be helped. In all he had put his new attachment on eight 'phones in the vicinity of the sawmill. So he had eight chances in his favor, and as many against him as there were other telephones in use.
was using his most powerful and speedy craft, and the propellers were hard to turn. "Yes," answered Mrs. Damon. "It was just about this hour, Tom. Oh, I do hope—" She was interrupted by the jingle of the telephone bell. With a jump Tom was at the auxiliary instrument, while Mrs. Damon lifted off the receiver of her own telephone. "Yes; what is it?" she asked, in a voice that she tried to make calm. "Do you know who this is?" Tom heard come over the wire. "Are you the—er—the person who was to
there's his picture, all right!" Tom held up the plate. There, imprinted on it by the wonderful power of the young inventor's latest appliance, was the image of the rascally promoter. As plainly as in life he was shown, even to his silk hat and the flower in his button-hole. He was in a telephone booth—that much could be told from the photograph that had been transmitted over the wire, but which booth could not be said—they were nearly all alike. "Peters!" gasped Ned. "I thought he was the
He and Tom were soon off again, speeding in the auto toward Shopton. But the roads were bad, after a heavy rain, and they did not make fast time. The coming of dusk found them with more than thirty miles to go. They were in an almost deserted section of the country when suddenly, as they were running slowly up a hill, there was a sudden crack, the auto gave a lurch to one side of the roadway and then settled heavily. Tom clapped on both brakes quickly, and gave a cry of dismay. "Broken front