“Because,” replied the foreman, “that new Russian workman he hired has gone away and left a valuable pattern half glued. It will be ruined if it isn’t finished and placed in the vise to set. But none of the men knows anything about it, and I don’t either. Mr. Swift gave special orders that Barsky was to be allowed to work in his own way on that train-stop matter, and we don’t like to interfere. But I know enough about pattern making to feel sure this one will be spoiled if it isn’t finished soon.” “I’ll see if I can find Mr. Swift and send him to you,” promised Ned. But Tom could not be found in any of the shop departments, nor was he in his rooms at home. He had not been seen there since early morning, Mrs. Baggert stated. Still no alarm was felt. Often in the excitement of following up a new idea or completing an invention on which he had been working a long time, Tom would slip off by himself, either to be alone with his thoughts or to try out something that had occurred to him. And often he said nothing to any one of his intention. “That’s probably what he’s done now,” remarked Ned, and so little was thought of the matter that Mr. Swift was not informed, for it did not occur to any one but that Tom would come back by evening. “He might be over at Mary Nestor’s house,” suggested Mr. Newton, when the person who had called Tom on the telephone had been told to ring up later in the day. “That’s so,” agreed the young manager. “It’s the most likely place to find him. I should have thought of that before.” But Mary also answered in the negative. Tom was not there. “Is anything the matter?” she asked, influenced to do so perhaps by an anxious note in Ned’s voice. “Oh, no; nothing wrong,” he said. “It’s just an important message for him. He’ll be around soon, I guess.” But Tom Swift was far from “being around.” Ten thousand years seemed to pass while the young inventor lay in a fog of incoherence. At least, it appeared to Tom to be ten thousand years—perhaps longer. Slowly he opened his eyes, but the darkness about him was so intense that he thought it was still an effect of the cowardly blow, which he now remembered. But in a moment he knew that his eyes were open and that he was staring out of them, but without seeing anything. The blackness was profound—like a piece of black velvet wrapped about him. And then, as he tried to move and found that he could not, Tom knew that he was bound—bound with ropes and in a dark and strange place. “I surely am up against it!” he muttered. CHAPTER XVII OUT OF THE CISTERN “WHERE am I and what happened?” Tom asked himself. Rather futile and hackneyed questions, but they were just the points Tom desired to be informed about.