The flames, by this time, were subdued. There had been a second but slight, explosion. This, however, did little damage, as the force of it was directed toward the outer corridor, part of the wall of which was blown away. The greatest force of the first explosion, likewise, had been in the same direction, and though the door of Tom’s private laboratory had been stove in and some of his valuable apparatus scattered about and burned, fortunately no great damage was done to the secret room.
Ascertaining this and knowing how jealously Tom guarded the new secret, Mr. Swift had some of the men nail the laboratory up, an improvised door being made and boards being fastened over the shattered windows.
Tom had been blown through a window in the corridor outside his laboratory. But, luckily, the window was up at the bottom, and Tom had shot through a wire mosquito screen instead of through the glass. In spite of this, and the fact that he had landed in a clump of deep, thick grass, the young inventor had not come off scatheless from the accident.
“Things aren’t as bad as they seemed at first, Mr. Swift,” reported Mr. Jackson a few hours after the explosion. “The fire is all out now and Tom’s things don’t seem to be much damaged. I’ve got several men on guard. They’ll stay there the rest of the night.”
“It will soon be morning,” murmured the old gentleman. “Thank you, Jackson.”
“I wonder how much longer Tom will remain unconscious?” Mr. Swift said, entering the sickroom and glancing toward the bed on which his son lay.
“I think he is coming around now,” said the doctor softly, as he moved to his patient’s side. “Yes, he is coming out of it,” he added. “How do you feel?” he asked as Tom opened his eyes and stared about.
“Pretty—pretty—rocky,” was the husky answer. “What—what happened?” he asked in a stronger voice. Then, as recollection came back to him, Tom went on: “I remember now. There was an explosion just as I was coming out of my laboratory. Is it gone? Is everything gone?” and he tried to get up. Dr. Layton pushed him back.
“Now lie still,” said the doctor. “Things aren’t half as bad as you think, and you’re not much hurt.”
“I don’t care about myself!” declared Tom fiercely. “But if that new—that machine is blown up—” He looked anxiously at his father, the only other person in the room who knew about the secret of the talking-picture invention.