"But the fire is certainly dying down," declared Mr. Baxter.
And this was true. As container after container of the bomb type fell in different parts of the burning lumberyard, while Tom coursed above it, the flames began to be smothered in various sections.
And from the watching crowds, as well as from the hard-working members of the Shopton fire department, came cheers of delight and encouragement as they saw the work of Tom Swift's aerial fire-fighting machine.
For he had, most completely, subdued what threatened to be a great fire, and when the last of his bombs had been dropped, so effective was the blanket of fire-dampening gases spread around that the flames just naturally expired, as it were.
As Tom had said, the absence of wind was in his favor, for the generated gases remained just where they were wanted, directly over the fire like an extinguishing blanket, and were not blown aside as would otherwise have been the case.
And, by the peculiar manner in which his chemicals were mixed, Tom had made them practically harmless for human beings to breathe. Though the fire-killing gases were unpleasant, there was no danger to life in them, and while several of the firemen made wry faces, and one or two were slightly ill from being too close to the chemicals, no one was seriously inconvenienced.
"Well, I guess that's all," said Tom, when the final bomb had been dropped. "That was the last of them, wasn't it, Ned?"
"Yes, but you don't need any more. The fire's out—or what isn't can be easily handled by the hose lines."
"Good!" cried Tom. "But, all the same, I wish I had been able to make the first mixture work."
"Perhaps I can help you with that," suggested Mr. Baxter.