"Oh, dear old dad!" exclaimed Tom affectionately. "I don't want
to argue with him, but he's dead wrong!"

"Then you are going to make a go of it?"

"I sure am, Ned! All I have to solve is the recoil proposition,
and, as soon as we get straightened out from this fire, we'll
tackle that problem again--you and I. But I sure would like to
know who put this in my red shed," and Tom looked in a puzzled
manner at the empty fire bomb he still held.

Tom paused, on his way to the house, to put the bomb in one of
his offices.

"No use letting dad know about this," he went on. "It would only
be something else for him to worry about."

"That's right," agreed Ned.

By this time nearly all evidences of the fire, except for the
blackened ruins of the shed, had been cleared away. High in the
air hung a cloud of black smoke, caused by some chemicals that
had burned harmlessly save for that pall. Tom Swift had indeed
had a lucky escape.

The young inventor, finding his father quieted down and
conversing easily with Mr. Damon, who was blessing everything he
could think of, motioned to Ned to follow him out of the house
again.