“Bless my optic nerve, Mary! how sweet you are looking. Isn’t she, Mrs. Damon? Won’t you both get out?”
“I will,” said Mary promptly, taking her cue from Tom Swift’s look. “I must talk to Mrs. Damon.”
“Do so—do so,” cried the gentleman. “Maybe she will answer you; but I don’t often get a reply from her,” and he burst into one of his laughs. “Bless my wagging tongue! She says she does not get a chance to say a word until I am run down.”
He saw instantly that Tom had something serious on his mind. Mr. Damon was not at all an unobservant man. He whispered when Mary had run up the path to the porch:
“What’s the matter, Tom, my boy? Is Nestor worse?”
“I don’t know that he is. But they have had the consultation with the foreign doctor.”
“With that specialist?”
“Yes. He came to Shopton. A funny fellow, but the other doctors think he knows all about Mr. Nestor’s complaint.”
“What is it?” demanded Mr. Damon. “A very queer case! Bless my thermometer, a very queer case!”
“As far as I can see,” grumbled Tom Swift, “it is just as queer now—or queerer—than it was before Dr. Raddiker came.”