Ceasing his restless walk up and down the room, Tom Swift strode to the window and gazed across the field toward the
many buildings, where machines were turning out the products
evolved from the brains of his father and himself. There was
a worried look on the face of the young inventor, and he
seemed preoccupied, as though thinking of something far
removed from whatever it was his eyes gazed upon.
"Well, I'll do it!" suddenly exclaimed Tom. "I don't want
to, but I will. It's in the line of 'doing my bit,' I
suppose; but I'd rather it was something else. I wonder--"
"Ha! Up to your old tricks, I see, Tom!" exclaimed a
voice, in which energy and friendliness mingled pleasingly.
"Up to your old tricks!"
"Oh, hello, Mr. Damon!" cried Tom, turning to shake hands
with an elderly gentleman--that is, elderly in appearance
but not in action, for he crossed the room with the
springing step of a lad, and there was the enthusiasm of
youth on his face. "What do you mean--my old tricks?"
"Talking to yourself, Tom. And when you do that it means
there is something in the wind. I hope, as a sort of side
remark, it isn't rain that's in the wind, for the soldiers
over at camp have had enough water to set up a rival
establishment with Mr. Noah.