“Me kill any one hurt him!” cried Koku.
“I’m all right,” laughed Tom, who was touched, however, by their evident concern. “Just a few scratches and nothing else. Did you say there’s somebody to see me?”
“T’ree men,” said Koku.
“Fo’ men,” corrected Rad, with a glance of scorn. “Beats all how ignoramuses some folks is. Yassah,” he went on, while Koku was temporarily squelched, “Marse Damon’s dere wid free udder gemmum an dey bin waitin’ some time, sah.”
“All right,” said Tom. “But I’ve got to slip upstairs and get into other clothes. You go in, Rad, and tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Rad shambled off with a triumphant look at Koku.
“As for you, Koku,” said Tom to the giant, who immediately brightened up, “you go down to the garage and wash the roadster. I’ve had a long ride in it this afternoon and it needs a good cleaning. You’re the only one I’d trust to do it right.”
Koku straightened up proudly and strode off. Tom looked after him for a moment with an amused smile and then slipped into the house by the back way and went up to his room. He could hear the voice of his eccentric friend, Wakefield Damon, in the living room as he fumed about and, as was his habit, blessed everything in sight.
Mr. Damon was a man much older than Tom, but from the time he had let the lad have the motor cycle that had nearly crushed out the man’s life and had started Tom on his inventive career, the two had been great friends. Mr. Damon was as adventurous as a boy, and had accompanied Tom on many wild trips to wilder parts of the earth.
Tom washed and dressed hurriedly and then went downstairs.