“Bless my timepiece, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, as the young man entered. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been ’phoning everywhere I could think of for the last hour.”
“Sorry,” replied Tom, as he shook hands with his excitable friend and glanced at the three other men in the room who had risen from their chairs. “I was out for a ride in the airplane and was detained longer than I expected.”
“Bless my excuses!” said Mr. Damon. “Tom, let me introduce these three gentlemen who have called with me to see you on a matter of business.”
Mr. Damon introduced to Tom in turn a Mr. Thompson, Mr. Bragden and Mr. Hankinshaw. The two former were tall, sharp-eyed men, whose every glance and movement indicated mental celerity and familiarity with business. They were immaculately dressed. Hankinshaw was fat and gross, was roughly dressed and as uncouth in his manners as he was in physical appearance. He was smoking villainous tobacco in a pipe at which he puffed incessantly.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Tom pleasantly, after the introductions had taken place and they had resumed their seats, “what can I do for you?”
“We called,” said Mr. Thompson, who seemed by common consent to be the spokesman of the party, “to see you about the manufacture of some special oil-drilling machinery. I happened to know Mr. Damon slightly, due to the fact that we have some investments in another line, and in a conversation with him we told him something about our project. He immediately suggested that we get in communication with you. Said you had the ability and facilities to make just what we had in mind. Of course, the moment he mentioned your name, we recognized it, for who hasn’t heard of Tom Swift, the famous inventor?”
“Oh, there are lots of people who haven’t,” said Tom. “I’ve knocked together a few little things, but——”
“Bless my modesty,” broke in Mr. Damon, “listen to Tom talk. ‘Knocked together a few little things!’ Why, he’s made airplanes and cannon and searchlights and war tanks. He’s dug tunnels and goodness knows what not. Why, he’s made the whole tribe of inventors look like a lot of also-rans! He’s run rings around the lot of them. He’s the king pin. He’s—he’s—” and here Mr. Damon, sputtering incoherently, stopped for lack of breath and glared reproachfully at Tom as he polished his glasses.
“It’s evident that my reputation hasn’t suffered at Mr. Damon’s hands,” laughed Tom.
“No,” put in Hankinshaw, with the faintest sneer in his tone. “He makes a mighty good press agent.”