"Work up some clues against Andy Foger."
"Good! I'll do it! I'd like to get ahead of that bully and his father, who once tried to wreck the bank I'm interested in. I'll help you, Tom! I'll play detective! Let me see—what disguise shall I assume? I think I'll take the part of a tramp. Bless my ham sandwich! That will be the very thing. I'll get some ragged clothes, let my beard grow again—you see I shaved it off since my last visit—and I'll go around to the Foger place and ask for work. Then I can get inside the shed and look around. How's that for a plan?"
"It might be all right," agreed Tom, "only I don't believe you're cut out for the part of a tramp, Mr. Damon."
"Bless my fingernails! Why not?"
"Oh, well, it isn't very pleasant to go around in ragged clothes."
"Don't mind about me. I'll do it." And the odd gentleman seemed quite delighted at the idea. He and Tom talked it over at some length, and then adjourned to the house, where Mr. Swift, who had seemed to improve in the last few days, was told of the plan.
"Couldn't you go around after evidence just as you are?" asked the aged inventor. "I don't much care for this disguising business."
