Tom accepted the card and holding it to the light read inscribed the name.
“Um—Ivan Barsky!” murmured the young inventor, casting his memory back over many names representing many men to see if this one fitted in anywhere. “I don’t seem to recall him,” he said.
“He done tole me dat he’s a stranger to you all,” confided Rad. “But he says it’s mighty ’portant business.”
“Perhaps it is—to him,” chuckled Tom, who was accustomed to having many strangers call on him for help or to ask him to lend his talents toward perfecting some crazy invention. “Well, Rad, show him in.”
“Yas, sah,” and the colored man shuffled out, to return presently ushering in a man at whom Tom shot a quick look. The youth saw before him a man of short stature but powerful build. He had a shock of black, bushy hair, and it was difficult to tell where his hair left off and his beard began, the latter also being black and bushy.
“The name Ivan was right,” thought Tom. “He’s a Russian all the way through.”
“Mr. Swiftski?” asked the man in questioning tones, and with a trace of surprise, seemingly.
“You can leave off the ski,” said Tom. “But I’m Mr. Swift.”
“Pardon—but eet is that I do not the talk of your country know so well. In my talk there are so many who are like that. But your pardon I again ask—eet is to see so young a man that I am taken by astonishment.”
“You’re a pretty slick article,” said Tom to himself. “I don’t know that I’m going to like you, but I’ll give you one more chance.”