A voice barked a sharp command through the gathering darkness. “Put up your hands!”
CHAPTER VIII
NIPPING A PLOT
TOM felt a surge of relief. The voice was that of Harlan Ames! Everything had happened so fast-the raucous honking, his car going out of control, his split-second dash for safety-that Tom was uncertain about exactly what had taken place.
As he strode back toward the road, Tom saw three figures jump from the car which had blocked off the truck’s escape. One was Ames, another a uniformed policeman. The third Tom recognized as Sergeant Camp, a plain-clothes man in the Shopton Police Department.
The three surrounded the truck. Sergeant Camp walked around to the driver’s side of the truck and yanked open the door. “All right, you. Get out! Make it snappy!”
Two men emerged, hands in the air. The driver was a stocky, tough-looking fellow in a
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leather jacket. His companion, tall and slender, wore a tweed sports coat and slacks. A felt hat, pulled low over his eyes, failed to obscure his sharp-featured face.
“What’s the big idea?” he whined.
“That’s what we intend to find out!” Ames snapped. “Why were you trailing Tom Swift?”
“Who said we were trailing him?” the driver retorted belligerently. “I’ve never even seen the kid before! Any law against driving on the same road with him?”
Ames’s eyes drilled into the man coldly. “There’s a law against trying to kill someone-and it could put you two behind bars for a good long stretch!”
The driver’s face took on a look of feigned astonishment. “We never touched him!”
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