the room. Tom followed.

"Now, my son, be careful," advised his father. "You know the
need of haste, but don't take unnecessary risks. You'd better go
out the back way, as the crowd is easily excited."

Little more was said. Mr. Swift clasped his son's hand in a
firm pressure, and the bank president nervously bade the lad
good-by. Then, slipping out of the bank, by the rear entrance,
the porter closing the door after them, Tom and Mr. Damon took
their places in the electric machine.

"Just imagine you're racing for that three-thousand-dollar
prize, offered by the Touring Club of America, Tom," observed Mr.
Damon, as he deposited the valise at his feet.

"I don't have to do that," replied the youth. "I'm trying for a
bigger prize than that. I want to save the bank, and defeat the
schemes of the Fogers--father and son."

Tom turned on the power, and the machine rolled out on the main
street. As it turned the corner, leaving the impatient crowd of
depositors, now larger than ever, behind, Mr. Damon glanced over
at the new bank, and, as he did so, he called to Tom:

"There are the Fogers now."

The young inventor looked, and saw Andy and his father on the
steps of the new institution.