David Knowlton, the farmer upon whom Tom had called so unceremoniously, was scarcely more surprised by the sudden falling over of the young man in a faint than he had been at his eager request for a telephone.
“Great bullfrogs!” cried Mr. Knowlton, as he hurried to pick Tom up and lay him on a lounge in the room. “What’s all this goings-on, anyhow? What’s it all mean?”
“Is he dead?” asked Mrs. Knowlton, who hurried into the room, having followed Tom and her husband when she saw the stranger come up to the house.
“I don’t know, Sarah,” was the answer. “But first hang that telephone back on the hook. The inspector told me never to leave it off when we weren’t using the line and I guess this fellow is through using it.”
So the telephone went back on the hook, which defeated the plans of frantic Ned Newton, on the other end, if not to hold further talk with Tom, at least to learn from what station he was telephoning his message of warning. In vain did Ned appeal to the central operator to re-establish the connection.
“Unless you know the number of the party who called I can’t connect you,” she reported, and Ned knew, from previous attempts, that it was useless to carry the effort further. He could only hope that Tom would call again to relieve their minds. All they knew now was that he was alive, but that something dire portended.
Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton, kindly souls that they were, ministered to Tom Swift. The farmer’s wife brought out her bottle of camphor, and a sniff of this potent spirit, with some rubbed on his forehead, soon brought Tom out of his faint. Then he was given a drink of water, which further helped in restoring his failing energies.
“If they come for me, don’t let them get me!” begged Tom, sitting up on the couch. “Help me to get back! I must travel fast!”
“You need a doctor, that’s what you need, young man!” decided Mr. Knowlton. “You aren’t fit to travel. You’ve done too much of that already, from the looks of you, and that foot of yours is in bad shape,” he added, as he saw the swollen ankle. Tom’s shoe laces were almost bursting from the pressure of the swelled flesh, and the farmer had to cut them to loosen them. This gave Tom some relief, but the hardships he had gone through, the anxiety, and being without proper food so long, had so weakened him that he went off in another faint before he could tell his story.
“Call Doctor Prouty,” advised Mrs. Knowlton. “We’ll never get to the bottom of this until this young man is in his right mind.”