seat.

"Because I can't very well bear you, or talk to you. The motor
makes so much noise, you know. We can do a little talking through
this speaking tube," and he indicated one, "but it isn't very
satisfactory. So if you have anything to say--"

"In the language of the poets," interrupted Mary, "if I have
words to spill, prepare to spill them now. Well, I haven't! Now
I'm here, go ahead! I shall probably be too frightened to talk,
anyhow."

"Oh, no you won't--after the first little sensation," Tom
assured her. "You'll be crazy about it. Come on, Jackson!" he
called to the mechanician. "Start the ball rolling!"

Tom was in his place, his goggles and cap well down over his
face, and he was adjusting the switch as the mechanic prepared to
spin the propellers.

Suddenly a man came running from the Swift house, waving his
arms not unlike the blades of an aircraft propeller, he also
shouted, but Tom, whose ears were covered with his fur cap, could
not hear. However, Jackson did, and stopped whirling the blades,
turning about to see what was wanted.

"Why, it's Mr. Damon!" exclaimed Tom, as he caught sight of the
excited man. "Hello, what's the matter?" the youth asked, pulling
aside one flap of his head-covering so he might hear the answer.