e inventor, as he leaped from the deck of his
sky craft. "Let's clean out the red shed. That fire is only smothered,
and there may be sparks smoldering under that sand, which will burst
into flame, if we're not careful. Let's get the explosives out of the
way."

"Bless my insurance policy, yes," exclaimed Mr. Damon. "That was a fine
move of yours."

"It was the only way I could think of to put out the fire," Tom
replied. "I knew water was out of the question, and sand was the next
thing."

"But I didn't know where to get any until I happened to think of the
ballast bags of my dirigible. Then I knew, if I could get above the
fire, I could do the trick. I had to fly pretty high, though, as the
fire was hot, and I was afraid it might explode the gas bag and wreck
me."

"You were taking a chance," remarked Ned.

"Oh, well, you have to take chances in this business," observed Tom,
with a smile. "Now, then, let's finish this work."

The sand, falling from the ballast bags of the dirigible, had so
effectually quenched the fire that it was soon cool enough to permit
close approach. Koku, Tom and some of the men who best knew how to
handle the explosives, were soon engaged in the work of salvage.

"I wish I could help you, Tom," said his aged father. "I don't seem
able to do anything but stand here and look on," and he gazed about him
rather sadly.

"Never you mind, Dad!" Tom exclaimed. "We'll get along all right now.
You'd better go up to the house. Mr. Damon will go with you."

"Yes, of course!" exclaimed the odd man, catching a wink from Tom, who
wanted his father not to get too excited on account of his weak heart.
"Come along, Professor Swift. The danger is all over."

"All right," assented the aged inventor, with a look at the still
smoking shed.

"And, Dad, when you haven't anything else to do," went on Tom, rather
whimsically, "you might be thinking up some plan to take up the recoil
of those guns on my aerial warship. I confess I'm clean stumped on that
point."

"Your aerial warship will never be a success," declared Mr. Swift. "You
might as well give that up, Tom."

"Don't you believe it, Dad!" cried Tom, with more of a jolly air of one
chum toward another than as though the talk was between father and son.
"You solve the recoil problem for me, and I'll take care of the rest,
and make the air warship sail. But we've got something else to do just
now. Lively, boys."

While Mr. Swift, taking Mr. Damon