n some of them."

"That's all right, Dad. Ned and I came out to wrestle with that recoil
problem again. I want to try some guns on the craft soon, but--"

"You'd better not, Tom," warned his father. "It will never work, I tell
you. You can't expect to take up quick-firing guns and bombs in an
airship, and have them work properly. Better give it up."

"I never will. I'll make it work, Dad!"

"I don't believe you will, Tom. This time you have bitten off more than
you can chew, to use a homely but expressive statement."

"Well, Dad, we'll see," began Tom easily. "There she is, Ned," he went
on. "Now, if you'll come around here..."

But Tom never finished that sentence, for at that moment there came
running into the airship shed an elderly, short, stout, fussy
gentleman, followed by an aged colored man. Both of them seemed very
much excited.

"Bless my socks, Tom!" cried the short, stout man. "There sure is
trouble!"

"I should say So, Massa Tom!" added the colored man. "I done did
prognosticate dat some day de combustible material of which dat shed am
composed would conflaggrate--"

"What's the matter?" interrupted Tom, jumping forward. "Speak out!
Eradicate! Mr. Damon, what is it?"

"The red shed!" cried the short little man. "The red shed, Tom!"

"It's on fire!" yelled the colored man.

"Great thunderclaps!" cried Tom. "Come on--everybody on the job!" he
yelled. "Koku, pull the alarm! If that red shed goes--"

Instantly the place was in confusion. Tom and Ned, looking from a
window of the hangar, saw a billow of black smoke roll across the yard.
But already the private fire bell was clanging out its warning. And,
while the work of fighting the flames is under way, I will halt the
progress of this story long enough to give my new readers a little idea
of who Tom Swift is, so they may read this book more intelligently.
Those of you who have perused the previous volumes may skip this part.

Tom Swift, though rather young in years, was an inventor of note. His
tastes and talents were developed along the line of machinery and
locomotion. Motorcycles, automobiles, motorboats, submarine craft, and,
latest of all, craft of the air, had occupied the attention of Tom
Swift and his father for some years.

Mr. Swift was a widower, and lived with Tom, his only son, in the
village of Shopton, New York State. Mrs. Baggert kept house for them,
and an aged colored man, Eradicate Sampson, with his mule, Boomerang,
did