“Ready!”
“Then drop the bombs!”
Ned dropped them. A sharp explosion was heard, and the head of the procession was blown apart and thrown into confusion. The throng halted.
“Drop more!” cried Tom, sending the ship about in a circle, and hovering it over the middle of the press of savages.
More of the deadly bombs exploded. The pygmies were running about wildly. Tom, who was closely watching the rear of the cavalcade, suddenly called out:
“Now’s our chance! They’ve let their captives go, and are running into the jungle. We must swoop down, and get the prisoners!”
It was no sooner said than the nose of the Black Hawk was pointed downward. Onward it flew, the two captives wildly waving their hands to the rescuers. There was no more danger from the red savages. They had been thrown into panic and confusion, and were rapidly disappearing into the forest. The terrible weapons of the whites had been too much for them.
“Quick! Get on board!” called Tom, as he brought the machinery to a stop. The airship now rested on the ground, close to the former captives. “Get in here!” shouted the young inventor. “They may change their minds and come back.”
The two white persons ran toward the Black Hawk. Then one of them— the smaller—halted and cried out:
“Why, it’s Tom Swift!”