All the next day the search was kept up, and Ned and Mr.
Damon were getting discouraged, not to say alarmed, when,
most unexpectedly, they received a clew.
They had been traveling around the country on little-frequented
roads in the hope that perhaps Tom might have taken one
and disabled his machine so that he was unable to proceed.
"Though in that case he could, and would, have sent word,"
said Ned.
"Unless he's hurt," suggested Mr. Damon.
"Well, maybe that is what's happened," Ned was saying,
when they noticed coming toward them a very much dilapidated
automobile, driven by a farmer, and on the seat beside him
was a small, barefoot boy.
"Which is the nearest road to Shopton?" asked the man,
bringing his wheezing machine to a stop.
"Who are you looking for in Shopton?" asked Ned, while a
strange feeling came over him that, somehow or other, Tom
was concerned in the question.
"I'm looking for friends of a Tom Swift," was the answer.
"Tom Swift? Where is he? What's happened to him?" cried
Ned.
"Bless my dyspepsia tablets!" exclaimed Mr.
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