Suddenly a man came running from the Swift house, waving his arms not unlike the blades of an aircraft propeller, he also shouted, but Tom, whose ears were covered with his fur cap, could not hear. However, Jackson did, and stopped whirling the blades, turning about to see what was wanted.
"Why, it's Mr. Damon!" exclaimed Tom, as he caught sight of the excited man. "Hello, what's the matter?" the youth asked, pulling aside one flap of his head-covering so he might hear the answer.
"Tom! Wait a minute! Bless my mouse trap!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, "I want to speak to you!" He was panting from his run across the field. "I just got to your house—saw your father—he said you were going up with Miss Nestor, but—bless my dog biscuit—"
"Can't stop now, Mr. Damon!" answered Tom, with a laugh. "I have only just succeeded, by hard work, in getting Mary to a point where she has consented to take a sky ride. If I stop now she'll back out and I'll never get her in again. See you when I come back," and Tom pulled the covering over his ear once more.
"But, Tom, bless my shoe laces! This is important!"
"So's this!" answered Tom, with a grin. He saw, by the motion of Mr. Damon's lips, what the latter had said.
Around swung the propeller blades. The gasoline vapor in the cylinders was being compressed.
"Contact!" called Tom sharply, as he pressed the switch to give the igniting spark at the proper moment. The mechanic had stepped back out of the way, in case there should be a premature starting of the powerful engine, in which event the blades would have cut him to pieces.
"Wait, Tom! Wait! This is very important! Bless my collar button, Tom Swift, but this is—"
Bang! Bang! Bang!