Swift. "I want you to go in that race, Tom—and win!"
"But I'll not do it, dad, if you're going to be ill."
"He is ill now," interrupted the doctor. "Very ill, Dom Swift."
"That settles it. I don't go in the race. You and I'll go away, dad—to California, or up in Canada. We'll travel for your health."
"No! no!" insisted the old inventor gently. "I will be all right. Most of the work on the monoplane is done now, isn't it, Tom?"
"Yes, dad."
"Then you go on, and finish it. You and Mr. Jackson can do it without me now. I'll take a rest, doctor, but I want my son to enter that race, and, what's more, I want him to win!"
"Vell, if you don't vork, dot is all I ask. I must forbid you to do any more. Mit Dom, dot is different. He is young und strong, und he can vork. But you—not, Herr Swift, or I doctor you no more." And the physician shook his big head.
"Very well. I'll agree to that if Tom will promise to enter the race," said the inventor.
"I will," said Tom.
The physician took his leave shortly after that, the medicine he gave to Mr. Swift somewhat
