"Well, I'm Tom Swift," and the young owner of the name smiled.
"I hope you will pardon a stranger for calling on you," resumed the man, "but I'm in a lot of trouble, and I think you are the only one who can help me out."
"What sort of trouble?" Tom inquired.
"Contracting trouble—tunnel blasting, to be exact. But if you have a few minutes to spare perhaps you will listen to my story. You will then be better able to understand my difficulty."
Tom Swift considered a moment. He was used to having appeals for help made to him, and usually they were of a begging nature. He was often asked for money to help some struggling inventor complete his machine.
In many cases the machines would have been of absolutely no use if perfected. In other cases the inventions were of the utterly hopeless class, incapable of perfection, like some perpetual motion apparatus. In these cases Tom turned a deaf ear, though if the inventor were in want our hero relieved him.
But this case did not seem to be like anything Tom had ever met with before.
"Contracting trouble—blasting," repeated the youth, as he mused over what he had heard.
"That's it," the man went on. "Permit me to
