“The wax museum!” Tom burst out laughing. “You mean I’m in there?”
“Why not? You’re famous!” Phyl said.
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After buying tickets, they went into a dimly lighted gallery filled with eerily lifelike figures. Among them were Winston Churchill, various British monarchs, Adolf Hitler, Charles Dickens, Admiral Nelson dying on the deck of his flagship, Marie Antoinette about to be guillotined, and a blood-chilling assortment of famous criminals.
“That taxi driver wasn’t kidding!” Bud muttered.
Presently they stopped short before a youth with a crew cut, dressed in a space suit, and holding an astronaut’s helmet.
“Hey! It’s you, Tom!” Bud gasped. “They must have just put this in.”
“Good grief!” Tom murmured. “What a weird feeling to meet yourself face to face!”
A little boy who was visiting the museum with his parents suddenly recognized Tom. “Look! There’s the real Tom Swift!” he squealed. “I saw him on the telly this morning!”
Soon the young inventor and his companions were surrounded by a knot of admirers. The gray-haired proprietor of the museum came bustling out to greet them.
“It is indeed an honor to be visited by one of our most popular attractions!”
the proprietor said, shaking hands. He stepped back, cocked his head, and compared the statue to Tom. “Not bad, sir, if I may say so, considering it was done from photographs.”
“Looks so real it’s startling,” Tom said.
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The proprietor’s eyes gleamed. “Would you care to have it?”
Tom’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You mean to take back to America?”