“Well, I know one thing, and that is that the place for this young man is in bed!” exclaimed motherly Mrs. Blackford, and she insisted on Tom retiring.  He was somewhat restless at first, and the thought of the loss of the model and the papers preyed on his mind.  Then, utterly exhausted, he sank into a heavy slumber, and did not awaken until the sun was shining in his window the next morning.  A good breakfast made him feel somewhat better, and he was more like the resourceful Tom Swift of old when he went to get his motor-cycle in shape for the ride back to Shopton.

“Well, I hope you find those criminals,” said Mr. Blackford, as he watched Tom oiling the machine.  “If you’re ever out this way again, stop off and see us.”

“Yes, do,” urged Mrs. Blackford, who was getting ready to churn.  Her husband looked at the old-fashioned barrel and dasher arrangement, which she was filling with cream.

“What’s the matter with the new churn?” he asked in some surprise.

“It’s broken,” she replied.  “It’s always the way with those new-fangled things.  It works ever so much nicer than this old one, though,” she went on to Tom, “but it gets out of order easy.”

“Let me look at it,” suggested the young inventor.  “I know something about machinery.”

The churn, which worked by a system of cogs and a handle, was brought from the woodshed.  Tom soon saw what the trouble was.  One of the cogs had become displaced.  It did not take him five minutes, with the tools he carried on his motor-cycle, to put it back, and the churn was ready to use.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Blackford.  “You are handy at such things!”

“Oh, it’s just a knack,” replied Tom modestly.  “Now I’ll put a plug in there, and the cog wheel won’t come loose again.  The manufacturers of it ought to have done that.  I imagine lots of people have this same trouble with these churns.”

“Indeed they do,” asserted Mrs. Blackford.  “Sallie Armstrong has one, and it got out of order the first week they had it.  I’ll let her look at mine, and maybe her husband can fix it.”

“I’d go and do it myself, but I want to get home,” said Tom, and then he showed her how, by inserting a small iron plug in a certain place, there would be no danger of the cog coming loose again.

“That’s certainly slick!” exclaimed Mr. Blackford.  “Well, I wish you good luck, Mr. Swift, and if I see those scoundrels around this neighborhood again I’ll make ’em wish they’d let you alone.”

“That’s what,” added Jed, polishing his badge with his big, red handkerchief.

Mrs. Blackford transferred the cream to the new churn which Tom had fixed, and as he rode off down the highway on his motor-cycle, she waved one hand to him, while with the other she operated the handle of the apparatus.

“Now for a quick run to Shopton to tell dad the bad news,” spoke Tom to himself as he turned on full speed and dashed away.  “My trip has been a failure so far.”