It was very trying to Tom and Ned, for they had to work hard and rapidly in the close engine room. The sweat dripped down off them, but they kept at it. It was three hours before the broken cylinder was removed, and it was no light task to put in the other, for the valves had to be made very tight to prevent leakage.
The two lads stopped to get something to eat, while the guards kept sharp watch against a surprise. At intervals came a flight of barbs, and occasionally a black form could be seen, when it was instantly fired at. Several times the barbaric noise of the tom-toms and war drums, with which the shouts of the natives mingled, broke out deafeningly.
“Think you can repair it by night?” asked Mr. Durban anxiously of Tom.
“I hope so,” was the response.
“Because if we have to stay here after dark—well, I don’t want to do it if I can help it,” finished the hunter.
Neither did the young inventor, and he redoubled his efforts to make the repairs. It was getting dark when the last belt was in place, and it was high time, too, for the natives were getting bolder, creeping up through the forest to within shooting distance with their arrows and spears.
“There!” cried Tom at length. “Now we’ll see if she works!” Once more he pulled the starting lever, and this time there was the welcome hiss of the gas.
“Hurrah!” cried Ned.
The young inventor turned the machine on at full power. In a few minutes the Black Hawk trembled through her length.
“She’s going up! Bless my balloon basket! She’s going up!” cried Mr. Damon.