Tom thrust the dirty piece of paper into the extended hand of the eccentric man. Slowly, for the writing was not very clear, Mr. Damon read: “Take this to Tom Swift and receive ten dollars. Help. Am prisoner at Smith place. Brick house—flat roof—three cherry trees—old stone well. Ned Newton.” “Why—why—” faltered Mr. Damon, turning the paper over, “it’s from—from Ned Newton, who’s missing. It’s from him!” “It _purports_ to be,” said Tom in a low voice, looking at the old man who was rubbing with a lean hand a chin very much in need of the good offices of a razor. “But it may be a hoax.” “Is it Ned’s writing?” asked Mr. Damon. “Let me look at it again,” suggested the young inventor. “I was so surprised by the import of the message that I didn’t pay much attention to the handwriting.” He scrutinized it closely and said in a low voice to his odd friend: “It’s Ned’s scribbling all right. No one else makes a capital N just like Ned. Where did you get this?” he asked the old man sharply. “In a field, boss. I picked it up and I made out to read it. I saw your name on it and I made some inquiries and folks directed me here. It’s been a long walk, and I’m tired and hungry and——” “We’ll see that you don’t lose anything by what you did if this turns out to be no fake,” said Tom, still a bit sternly. “It will be worth a good deal more than ten dollars to you if this leads to the finding of my helper. Now tell me straight, where did you get this?” “In the field, boss, I told you.” “What field?” “About five miles from here, over Cherry Valley way. I’m on the tramp—there’s no use lying to you—I’m a sort of a bum, but it ain’t all my fault. I work at helping on a farm when I can, but there’s been so much rain lately I couldn’t get much to do.” “He’s right there—it has rained a lot,” said Mr. Damon. “Sure it has, boss. I’ve been tramping around and I was cooking a little meal in a field over Cherry Valley way when I picked up this paper. I can read—I went to school once,” he said, with a flash of pride, but it was only a brief flash. “I read what it said and I asked my way here.” “How did the paper get in the field?” asked Tom. “Did it blow there?” “No, boss, it come down on a kite.” “On a _kite_?” cried Mr. Damon. “Bless my phonograph, but he’s hoaxing you, Tom! Pay no attention to him. It’s all a trick to get money out of you.” But the old man did not appear to be one who would play a joke, and his face was grave as he made the surprising statement about the kite. Also there was about him a pathetic, hungry, hoping look as he glanced at Tom Swift. “You say this message came down in a field on a _kite_?” asked Tom, and his voice though at first stern, was now kinder, for he felt sorry for the old codger.