"We're going to make fast time,
Dr. Hendrix. You'd better put this on," and Tom extended a face
protector.
"What's it for?" The physician looked curiously at it.
"To keep the air from cutting your cheeks and lips. We are going to
travel a hundred miles an hour this trip."
"A hundred miles an hour!" Dr. Hendrix spoke as though he would like to
back out.
"Maybe more, if I can manage it," went on Tom, calmly, as he proceeded
to remove the bag of sand from the place where the surgeon was to sit.
Then he looked to the various equilibrium arrangements and the control
levers. He was so cool about it, taking it all for granted, as if rising
and flying through the air at a speed rivaling that of the fastest
birds, was a matter of no moment, that Dr. Hendrix was impressed by the
calm demeanor of the young inventor.
"Very well," said the surgeon with a shrug of his shoulders, "I guess
I'm game, Tom Swift."
The doctor took the seat Tom pointed out to him, with his bag of
instruments on his knees. He put on the face protector, and had, at the
suggestion of our hero, donned a heavy coat.
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