"Are you much hurt?" asked Mr. Swift anxiously, for Tom was too much out of breath with his exertion to ask any questions. For that matter the man was in almost as bad a plight. He was breathing heavily, as one who had run a long race.
"I—I guess I'm all right," he panted. "Only burned a little on my hands. That—that was a close call!"
The boat swung around and headed for shore, on which was quite a throng of persons. Some of them had cheered when they saw the plucky rescue.
"I'm afraid we can't save your balloon," gasped Tom as he looked at the place where the canvas was still floating and burning.
"No matter. It wasn't worth much. That's the last time I'll ever go up in a hot-air balloon," said the man with more energy than he had before exhibited. "I'm done with 'em. I've had my lesson. Hereafter an aeroplane or a gas balloon for me. I only did this to oblige the fair committee. I'll not do it again."
The man spoke in short, crisp sentences, as though he was in too much of a hurry to waste his words.
"Let it sink," he went on. "It's no good. Glad to see the last of it."
Almost as he spoke, with a final hiss and a cloud of steam that mingled with the black smoke, the remains of the big bag sunk beneath the surface of the lake.
"We must get you ashore at once and to a doctor," said Mr. Swift. "You must be badly burned."
"Not much. Only my hands, where some burning pieces of canvas fell on' em. If I had a little oil to put on I'd be all right."