The cloud of yellowish smoke was slowly rolling away, and the man and lad were approaching the shop, which, in spite of the explosion that had taken place in it, was still intact, when an aged man, coming from a handsome house not far off, called out, "Tom, is anyone hurt?"
"No, dad. We're all right."
"What happened?"
"Well, we had another explosion. We can't seem to get the right mixture of the gas, but I think we've had the last of our bad luck. We're going to try it again. Up to now the gas has been too strong, the tank too weak, or else our valve control is bad."
"Oh dear, Mr. Swift! Do tell them to be careful!" a woman's voice chimed in. "I'm sure something dreadful will happen! This is about the tenth time something has blown up around here, and—"
"It's only the ninth, Mrs. Baggert," interrupted Tom, somewhat indignantly.
"Well, goodness me! Isn't nine almost as bad as ten? There I was, just putting my bread in the oven," went on Mrs. Baggert, the housekeeper, "and I was so startled that I dropped it, and now the dough is all over the kitchen floor. I never saw such a mess."
"I'm sorry," answered the youth, trying not to laugh. "We'll see that it doesn't happen again."
"Yes; that's what you always say," rejoined the motherly-looking woman, who looked after the interests of Mr. Swift's home.
"Well, we mean it this time," retorted the lad. "We see where our mistake was; don't we. Mr. Sharp?"