Mr. Swift feebly opened his eyes after Tom and Mr. Jackson had succeeded
in forcing some of the ammonia between his lips.

"Where am I? What happened?" asked the aged inventor faintly.

"We don't know, exactly," spoke Tom softly. "You are ill, father. I've
sent for the doctor. He'll fix you up. He'll be here soon."

"Yes, I'm--I'm ill," murmured the aged man. "Something hurts me--here,"
and he put his hand over his heart.

Tom felt a nameless sense of fear. He wished now that he had insisted on
his parent consulting a physician some time before, when Mr. Swift first
complained of a minor ailment. Perhaps now it was too late.

"Oh! when will that doctor come?" murmured Tom impatiently.

Mrs. Baggert, who was nervously going in and out of the room, again went
to the telephone.

"He's on his way," the housekeeper reported. "His wife said he just
started out in his auto."

Dr. Gladby hurried into the room a little later, and cast a quick look
at Mr. Swift, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Do you think he--think he's going to die?" faltered Tom. He was no
longer the self-reliant young inventor. He could meet danger bravely
when it threatened himself alone, but when his father was stricken he
seemed to lose all courage.