Tom Swift and his flying boat;

Tom Swift was quite sure that Mr. Wakefield Damon had not been up from Waterfield since the specialist had diagnosed Mr. Nestor’s trouble, and probably had not heard of Dr. Raddiker’s advice. The last Tom had heard from his eccentric friend, he was making preparations to leave for New York very shortly.

The young inventor did not even halt at the house to tell his father what he purposed doing; but he got out his electric runabout and made as good time as the town speed ordinance allowed to Mary Nestor’s house.

Mary and her mother were in no more cheerful state of mind than they had been when Tom had last seen them. They had canvassed all the possible ways they could think of to bring about the desired trip for Mr. Nestor into the North, but had accomplished nothing.

“Every way seems shut by a door that is barred and locked, Tom,” sighed Mary to her sympathetic friend. “We do not know what to do.”

“Put on your hat and jacket and come for a ride,” proposed the young fellow.

“But that won’t help father,” she complained. “And I ought not to take you from your work and let you drive me about the country. It isn’t right.”

“The trouble with you, Mary,” said Tom, grinning, “more than anything else, is your New England conscience. Don’t worry about what is right so much. Come on. I have a reason for taking you for a ride to-day.”

When they were on the road and she knew that he was heading for Waterfield and Mr. Damon’s house she expressed satisfaction. She was fond of Mr. Damon, and that eccentric gentleman was fond of Mary.

“But I feel condemned, Tom, when I go around to see people and talk and laugh—as one will—and then remember that father is so poorly and that there seems so little chance of his ever recovering his health.”

“Do you believe that Raddiker knew what he was talking about?”

“I do, indeed. The other doctors have much confidence in him. He is a wonderful scientist. They say they wonder why he came over here when he was so successful and so much admired for his knowledge in Austria.”

“I know why he came,” grumbled Tom, who could not bring himself to like Dr. Raddiker after his experience with him. “The same reason that all those foreigners come over here. A million kronen is worth about two cents of our money. And then they say that Americans are so mercenary!”

“Well, it does not seem that his pointing out the trouble with father is going to help save him,” sighed Mary.

“Don’t be too sure about that,” rejoined Tom with a change of tone. “Here is Mr. Damon’s place. Look at the trunks and packing boxes on the porch. Does he intend to take all those with him to Denmark?”

There seemed to be a wonderful amount of stir around the Damon premises. Mrs. Damon, who had long since ceased to interfere when her husband got the wanderlust, sat placidly in a rocking chair and weaved back and forth, knitting. She was the only calm looking object around the place, for even the hens were running and squawking in the yard as Mr. Damon’s serving man darted back and forth, subject to his employer’s call.

“Bless my spring-heel boots!” ejaculated Mr. Damon, rushing out to greet the two visitors. “Time is flying and I am so busy that I can’t think of half the things I want to do before my departure for New York. I was afraid I should not see either of you young folks again——

“Bless my optic nerve, Mary! how sweet you are looking. Isn’t she, Mrs. Damon? Won’t you both get out?”

“I will,” said Mary promptly, taking her cue from Tom Swift’s look. “I must talk to Mrs. Damon.”

“Do so—do so,” cried the gentleman. “Maybe she will answer you; but I don’t often get a reply from her,” and he burst into one of his laughs. “Bless my wagging tongue! She says she does not get a chance to say a word until I am run down.”

He saw instantly that Tom had something serious on his mind. Mr. Damon was not at all an unobservant man. He whispered when Mary had run up the path to the porch:

“What’s the matter, Tom, my boy? Is Nestor worse?”

“I don’t know that he is. But they have had the consultation with the foreign doctor.”

“With that specialist?”

“Yes. He came to Shopton. A funny fellow, but the other doctors think he knows all about Mr. Nestor’s complaint.”

“What is it?” demanded Mr. Damon. “A very queer case! Bless my thermometer, a very queer case!”

“As far as I can see,” grumbled Tom Swift, “it is just as queer now—or queerer—than it was before Dr. Raddiker came.”

“Ah-ha!” ejaculated Mr. Damon. “The famous Dr. Raddiker, the European scientist? Bless my medical dictionary! he is a wonderful man.”

“Yes? Well, maybe. But he has exploded a regular medical bomb in the Nestor household. He says the only sure cure for Mr. Nestor’s complaint is for him to leave home.”

“Change of climate, Tom?”

“Very much so. The temperature isn’t right for him here. He has got to go where the quicksilver takes a toboggan to the bottom of the glass.”

“Bless my thermostat! You don’t mean——?”

“That is it, exactly,” Tom assured him. “Dr. Raddiker declared the only cure for this disease is a cold climate—a much colder climate than ours. And that Mr. Nestor will have to remain in that colder climate for several weeks, if not months. Now, you know that Mrs. Nestor could never stand such an experience. Her bronchial trouble would be aggravated.”

“Well, well!”

“Mr. Nestor cannot go alone. Her mother would never feel comfortable an hour if Mary went with him, even to the North Cape, for instance. It is not to be thought of.”

“Bless my chilblains!” interrupted Mr. Damon excitedly. “If it is a cold country he needs, and all that, what could be finer than Iceland?”

“At least,” chuckled Tom Swift, “the name of that island is most suggestive.”

“And from all I have managed to learn, for a good part of the year it is cold enough up there to satisfy the most critical polar bear.”

“True for you.”

“He’s going with me, Tom, if he can travel. Of course he will!” cried Mr. Damon, jumping as usual to a decision which might change all his plans save that dealing with his destination.

But that was his way. Nothing was ever too much trouble for Wakefield Damon to do for a friend. He at once halted his preparations and rode back to Shopton with Tom and Mary, squeezed in between them on the narrow seat of the runabout, and interviewed the physicians that were attending Mr. Nestor.

What he learned about the chance Mr. Nestor had of surviving such a journey as was proposed satisfied Mr. Damon that he could take a chance with the invalid. When he went to the Nestor house and told the family in his blusterous way that he proposed bearing the sick man off with him, as a prisoner if need be, he scattered the gloom of that household most effectively.

“You are the dearest man who ever lived!” cried Mary, throwing herself into his arms.

“I’m going to tell Tom that,” threatened Mr. Damon. “Bless my love-knots, but that is the greatest compliment I ever had.”

Mary blushed, but her eyes shone upon him just the same. Mrs. Nestor was very grateful. The declaration made the most impression on the sick man.

“To Denmark and Iceland?” he said. “Places I have never seen! I shall like it. You give me a chance for life, I do believe, Brother Damon.”

“Never mind the sugar-plums,” replied Mr. Damon. “We’ve got to go in a hurry, for there is a certain steamship I want to take. Bless my seven-league boots! but we have got to do some tall traveling.”

It was all over and the invalid had been carried off by the boisterous Wakefield Damon. Tom Swift stood with Mary and her mother on the porch of their house and watched the two taxicabs, with the travelers and the baggage, disappear toward the railroad station. Mr. Nestor would not hear to any of them following him to the train.

“I hope everything will be all right with him,” sighed Mrs. Nestor.

“Well, everything will be all right with us here!” cried Mary, smiling at Tom. “We have Tom to look out for us.”

“Ah, Tom is such a help,” agreed the anxious woman. “But I hope Dr. Raddiker was right. It is a long way to Iceland, and the cold sea voyage may do him more harm than good.”