The car had been pretty well shaken up by its plunge into the ditch; and the engine balked several times before Tom managed to get it to town. Therefore Mary got far ahead of him with the car’s owner. When Tom Swift got to the Shopton House he found his electric runabout standing at the curb. Mary had gone home, for it was now quite late in the evening. Tom ran the shaken car to the nearest garage and then went into the hotel to leave word for the stranger where his property could be found. “You just had a guest come in, didn’t you?” Tom asked the clerk. The latter began to grin. “You mean the foreign feller?” “Some kind of a Dutchman, I guess,” said the young inventor. “What’s his name?” “Look on the book and see,” was the reply. “I can’t read it, and I don’t know what to call him. He not only speaks broken English, but he writes broken English.” “Really?” responded Tom, with a laugh. “Let’s take a squint at it.” He wheeled the register about on its swivel and peered at the crabbed writing. He could read “NewYork,U.S.of Amerika.” But the name of the man looked as much like a hen track as it did like anything written in the English language. “He’s one of these foreign musicians, I bet,” said the clerk to Tom. “And he wanted a room with a bath and hot running water!” “There isn’t anything like that in this house,” answered Tom, with a laugh. “If there was, I’d rent it myself,” declared the other. “He sniffed a lot about ‘de pad accommodations’; but he’s staying the night. Want to see him?” “No. I’ve seen enough of him, to tell the truth,” said Tom. “But you’d better get word to him where his car is. And don’t tell him anything about me! I don’t want him hunting me up and either thanking me or trying to pay me.” But secretly Tom did not believe the queer stranger would ever consider it necessary to thank those who had helped him out of his difficulty. “He’s one more Dutchman with a swelled head,” was the young inventor’s private comment, as he drove his runabout home. It was too late to go to Mary’s house again. But in the morning, the first thing when he reached his private office, he called the Nestor house. Mrs. Nestor answered the call and Tom knew, by her voice, that she was much disturbed. “The doctors were here for a consultation again early this morning, Tom,” the woman said brokenly. “They seem to have very little hope that Mr. Nestor will ever be better. And they have given up hope of the specialist’s coming——” “You mean the Dr. Raddiker Mary was speaking of?” asked Tom quickly. “Yes. They expected him yesterday. They find he has left New York for a vacation and, being such a busy man, he probably will not come here to consult with our doctors on a single case. They give us no hope——” “Oh! Don’t say that, Mrs. Nestor!” Tom interrupted. “It is the way we both feel,” said Mary’s mother. “If I knew of any diagnostician or specialist whom we could secure, no matter what it costs, I would ask you to get him here, Tom.”