Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton, kindly souls that they were, ministered to Tom Swift. The farmer’s wife brought out her bottle of camphor, and a sniff of this potent spirit, with some rubbed on his forehead, soon brought Tom out of his faint. Then he was given a drink of water, which further helped in restoring his failing energies. “If they come for me, don’t let them get me!” begged Tom, sitting up on the couch. “Help me to get back! I must travel fast!” “You need a doctor, that’s what you need, young man!” decided Mr. Knowlton. “You aren’t fit to travel. You’ve done too much of that already, from the looks of you, and that foot of yours is in bad shape,” he added, as he saw the swollen ankle. Tom’s shoe laces were almost bursting from the pressure of the swelled flesh, and the farmer had to cut them to loosen them. This gave Tom some relief, but the hardships he had gone through, the anxiety, and being without proper food so long, had so weakened him that he went off in another faint before he could tell his story. “Call Doctor Prouty,” advised Mrs. Knowlton. “We’ll never get to the bottom of this until this young man is in his right mind.” Luckily the physician was in his office in the village and drove out in his car as soon as the farmer had telephoned. A hasty examination showed that Tom was suffering from exhaustion more than from anything else, and a little warm milk, followed later by more substantial food, soon gave the youth energy enough to tell the main points of his story. “And if these men come after me—which they may do,” he said to Mr. Knowlton, “you won’t let them get me, will you?” “I should say not!” cried Mrs. Knowlton before her husband could answer. “The idea! You poor boy!” While the doctor was giving some directions as to what should be done for Tom, one of the hired men on the place came to the door of the room and reported: “There’s a couple of men outside who want to see you, Mr. Knowlton.” “All right—I’ll see them,” answered the farmer grimly. “Now don’t you worry!” he told Tom, as the youth started to say something. “Just leave ’em to me.” Mr. Knowlton found two unprepossessing characters awaiting him on the side porch. He recognized them at once from Tom’s description. “Have you seen a young man passing here?” asked one of the twain. “He has escaped from an insane asylum and we want to take him back before he can do any damage. He has a delusion that he is a great inventor, named Tom Swift, and he will likely tell a very plausible story. Have you seen him?” “Tom Swift is in my house now,” said the farmer slowly. “Is he? That’s good! We’re glad you have him safe!” cried the taller of the two men, with a quick glance at his companion. “Poor fellow—he needs care. We’ll look after him. Much obliged for having taken him in.” “Wait a minute,” went on the farmer, as the two men endeavored to push past him into the house. “Where are you going?” “To get the patient and take him back to the asylum.”