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Page 6
"I hope that isn't any comment on how I'm going to feel if we
have to make a--forced landing, I believe you call it," she
retorted.
"Oh, I'll take care of that!" exclaimed Tom. "Now up you go,
and we'll start," and he helped her to climb into the padded seat
of the cockpit, behind where he was to sit.
"Oh, Tom! Don't be in such a hurry !" expostulated Mary. "Let
me get my breath!"
"No!" laughed the young inventor. "If I did you might back out.
Get in, fasten the strap around you and sit still. That's all you
have to do. Don't be afraid, I'll be very careful. And don't try
to yell at me to go slower or lower once we're up in the air.
"Why not?" Mary wanted to know, as she settled herself in her
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.
"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!
With a series of explosions, like those of a machine gun, the
motor started, and further talk was out of the question. Tom
turned on more gas. The propellers became almost invisible blades
of light and shadow, and the aeroplane began moving over the
grassy field. The mechanic had sprung out of the way, pulling Mr.
Damon with him.
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