pocket, Tom ran downstairs. As he passed through the living-room,
intending to see what the disturbance was about, and, if necessary,
aid his father, the owner of the broken motor-cycle exclaimed:

"What's the matter? What has happened? Bless my coat-tails, but is
anything wrong?"

"I don't know," answered Tom. "There is a stranger about the shop,
and my father never allows that. I'll be back in a minute."

"Take your time," advised the somewhat eccentric Mr. Damon. "I find
my legs are a bit weaker than I suspected, and I will be glad to
rest a while longer. Bless my shoelaces, but don't hurry!"

Tom went into the rear yard, where the shops, in a small cluster of
buildings, were located. He saw his father confronting the man with
the black mustache, and Mr. Swift was saying:

"What do you want? I allow no people to come in here unless I or my
son invites them. Did you wish to see me?"

"Are you Mr. Barton Swift?" asked the man.

"Yes, that is my name."

"The inventor of the Swift safety lamp, and the turbine motor?"

At the mention of the motor Mr. Swift started.

"I am the inventor of the safety lamp you mention," he said stiffly,