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.
"He's on his way," the housekeeper reported. "His wife said he just started out in his auto."
Dr. Gladby hurried into the room a little later, and cast a quick look at Mr. Swift, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness.
"Do you think he—think he's going to die?" faltered Tom. He was no longer the self-reliant young inventor. He could meet danger bravely
