THE EXPEDITION SETS OFF
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.”