“He should be in bed and taking hot catnip tea!” insisted Mrs. Baggert.
“You ought to be in bed yourself, Mrs. Baggert!” returned Mr. Swift in kindly tones. “That wound in your hand——”
“Pshaw! A mere scratch. I’ve done worse to myself lots of times with a darning needle!” she replied. “And I do wish you’d take this catnip tea!”
“I’m not a baby!” laughed Mr. Swift. “But, give it here!”
He had decided that this was the best way of getting rid of the insistent and troubled housekeeper. He drank the concoction, making rather a wry face over it, and then Mrs. Baggert, satisfied, went out of the room.
“Now let’s have the story,” suggested Tom. “Start at the beginning. Is Rad able to tell his part in it?” he inquired, as he placed a chair for the aged colored man.
“I shore is!” was the emphatic answer. “An’ ef dat red-haired rascal comes in yeah now I’ll lambaste him a good one—dat’s whut I will!”
“Better go easy, Rad,” advised the doctor, who was putting away the materials he had been using.
“It was this way, Tom—” said his father, and then, noticing the rather disheveled condition of his son, he exclaimed: “Were you attacked also?”
“No. I had a little trouble with the plane and had to sprint with a forest fire,” was the easy answer. “I’m all right. Go on.”