Suppose his father should die? Tom could not bear to think of that. He
would be left all alone, and how much he would miss the companionship
and comradeship of his father none but himself knew.
"Oh! but I mustn't think he's going to die!" exclaimed the youth, as he
mixed the medicine.
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.
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