Swift, near his home.

"It didn't do so very much damage," observed Tom, as he peered in
through a window, void of all the panes of glass. "We can start right
in."

"Hold on! Wait! Don't try it now!" exclaimed Mr. Sharp, who talked in
short, snappy sentences, which, however, said all he meant. "The fumes
of that gas aren't good to breathe. Wait, until they have blown away.
It won't be long. It's safer."

He began to cough, choking from the pungent odor, and Tom felt an
unpleasant tickling sensation in his throat.

"Take a walk around," advised Mr. Sharp. "I'll be looking over the
blue prints. Let's have 'em."

Tom handed over the roll he had grabbed up when he ran from the shop,
just before the explosion took place, and, while his companion spread
them out on his knee, as he sat on an upturned barrel, the lad walked
toward the rear of the large yard. It was enclosed by a high board
fence, with a locked gate, but Tom, undoing the fastenings, stepped
out into a broad, green meadow at the rear of his father's property.
As he did so he saw three boys running toward him.

"Hello!" exclaimed our hero. "There are Andy Foger, Sam Snedecker and
Pete Bailey. I wonder what they're heading this way for?"

On the trio came, increasing their pace as they caught sight of Tom.
Andy Foger, a red-haired and squint-eyed lad, a sort of town bully,