"Tom! Wait a minute! Bless my mouse trap!" exclaimed Mr. Damon,
"I want to speak to you!" He was panting from his run across the
field. "I just got to your house--saw your father--he said you
were going up with Miss Nestor, but--bless my dog biscuit--"

"Can't stop now, Mr. Damon!" answered Tom, with a laugh. "I
have only just succeeded, by hard work, in getting Mary to a
point where she has consented to take a sky ride. If I stop now
she'll back out and I'll never get her in again. See you when I
come back," and Tom pulled the covering over his ear once more.

"But, Tom, bless my shoe laces! This is important!"

"So's this!" answered Tom, with a grin. He saw, by the motion
of Mr. Damon's lips, what the latter had said.

Around swung the propeller blades. The gasoline vapor in the
cylinders was being compressed.

"Contact!" called Tom sharply, as he pressed the switch to give
the igniting spark at the proper moment. The mechanic had stepped
back out of the way, in case there should be a premature starting
of the powerful engine, in which event the blades would have cut
him to pieces.

"Wait, Tom! Wait! This is very important! Bless my collar
button, Tom Swift, but this is--"

Bang! Bang! Bang!