Damon.
"One of the control wires broken!" was Tom's laconic
answer. "I'll have to volplane down. Sit tight, there's no
danger!"
Mr. Damon knew that with so competent a pilot as Tom Swift
in the forward seat this was true, but, nevertheless, he was
a bit nervous until he felt the smooth, gliding motion, with
now and then an upward tilt, which showed that Tom was
coming down from the upper regions in a series of long
glides. The engine had stopped, and the cessation of the
thundering noise made it possible for Tom and his passenger
to talk without the use of the speaking tube.
"All right?" asked Mr. Damon.
"All right," Tom answered, and a little later the machine
was rolling gently over the turf of a large field, a mile or
so from the camp.
Before Tom and Mr. Damon could get out of their seats, a
man, seemingly springing up from some hollow in the ground,
walked toward them.
"Had an accident?" he asked, in what he evidently meant
for a friendly voice.
"A little one, easily mended," Tom answered.
He was about to take off his goggles, but at sight of the
man's face a change came over the countenance of Tom Swift,
and he replaced the eye protectors.
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