“Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I think a private detective would be better. Or, best of all, I’ll get Clark and set out on the trail myself. I’ve got things begun on the rebuilding of my new machine now, and I’ve really got to do something about Ned.”
“I agree with you, Tom. I was just wondering——”
What he wondered Mr. Swift never stated, as at that moment a voice was heard out in the corridor, saying:
“Bless my storage battery, you needn’t show me the way in, Eradicate! I guess I can find Tom Swift, or what’s left of him! My! My! It must have been terrible! Bless my stick of dynamite! So they tried to blow Tom up!”
“It’s Mr. Damon!” said Mr. Swift, smiling at his son.
“No need for him to send in a card!” chuckled the young inventor. “His voice and talk give him away. Come in, Mr. Damon!” he called, and the door opened to give entrance to the eccentric, kindly old gentleman who, indirectly, had been the means of Tom’s starting on his great inventive career.
“Bless my handkerchief, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, vigorously mopping his face with the linen article in question, while he held out one hand to the young inventor. “What’s all this I hear about you? I just got back from a Western trip and my wife tells me you were blown sky high, that your plant was demolished, and that the whole business is in ruins. Bless my insurance policies! Whew!”
“Not quite so bad as that,” Tom answered, with a laugh.
“But something happened, bless my thermometer if it didn’t!” declared Mr. Damon, pointing to a bandage on Tom’s left hand.