“No, I must make the trip,” decided Tom. “I’m all right now—except for my ankle. Have you an auto?”
“Oh, yes, we have a flivver,” said the farmer.
“Then lend it to me—or sell it to me!” cried Tom. “I must make this trip at once—before night. Where is this place, anyhow?”
“You’re in Birchville,” was the answer. “It’s about thirty miles to Shopton from here.”
“I can make it!” cried Tom. “I can hobble along and make the trip in the auto. You’ll let me go, won’t you, Doctor?”
“Well, since you’re so set on it, I reckon I’ll have to. As you say, there’s nothing much the matter except a sprained ankle, and if some one will drive the car for you——”
“I’ll drive!” cried the farmer. “I want to see this thing through now. I didn’t like the looks of those fellows with their lie about an escaped crazy man. I’ll drive you home, Tom Swift!”
A little later they were on the road, and though the flivver made good time, still to Tom it seemed only to crawl. It was evening now, and rapidly getting dark.
Just before setting out he had again called Ned on the wire, telling his manager where he was, briefly relating what had happened, and again warning about the danger of bombs.
“Don’t worry, Tom,” Ned had ’phoned back. “We’re so glad you’re safe; nothing else matters. But we’ll be on our guard.”