[Ill.u.s.tration: Tom Headed the Ship Up]

In some surprise Ned observed that Captain Britten was fumbling with the straps about his big, old-fashioned valise. Young Newton wondered what the elderly man was looking for so intensely.

"Ahoy there, Tom Swift!" boomed the old diver, straightening up with a bottle in his hand. "I've got a drop o' gasoline here that may help ye!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I've Got a Drop of Gasoline."]

"What's that?" gasped the pilot. Turning, he saw the quart bottle.

Already the remaining engine was dying of thirst. "Quick, Ned!" he ordered, s.n.a.t.c.hing the container. "Take the controls and hold the ship level."

Five seconds later the inventor was creeping out along one wing toward the intake valve of the port gas tank. Their hearts almost in their mouths, his companions watched his hazardous progress. In spite of the clutching hand of the wind and the quavering of the ship under Ned's inexpert guidance, Tom managed to reach his goal.

[Ill.u.s.tration: He Crept Along One Wing]

Removing the cap with no little difficulty, he dumped the precious drops of gasoline into the tank. In a few moments he got back to the cabin. As he closed the door the laboring engine once more resumed its full-throated roar.

"Lad, you've got what it takes!" rumbled Captain Britten, shaking Tom's hand approvingly. "You're a mighty brave young fellow!"

"You mean YOU had what it takes," laughed the inventor, taking over the controls preparatory to landing on Carlopa. "Without that extra bit of gas we'd be piled up in a tree by now!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: He Emptied the Precious Drops]

The quart of fuel was just sufficient to carry the ship safely down to the lake's surface at a point about three miles from the town.

Fortunately one of Tom's friends was sailing near-by in his cat-boat and gladly offered to take the three over to the Swift dock, which jutted out from the grounds behind Tom's home.

It was mid-afternoon before the "Winged Arrow" was towed across to the dock and her tanks refilled with high-test gasoline. While this was being done, Tom and Ned went to the home of Mr. Damon to ask if he would like to accompany them to the West Indies.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tom Saw a Friend]

The man was found to be sitting in an easy chair on his front porch, where he spent much time, now that he was home from the hospital.

[Ill.u.s.tration: They Went to See Mr. Damon]

"Bless my parachute, I'd like nothing better than to make the trip!" he said a trifle wistfully. "To tell you the truth, though," his voice sank to a whisper, "between the doctors and Mrs. Damon I'll be lucky if I'm allowed to walk around the block alone for some time to come!"

"Well, that's too bad, Mr. Damon. We were counting on you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "We Were Counting on You."]

"Bless my fishing tackle, Tom, I'm sorry too. But tell me! How did Captain Britten happen to be carrying a quart of gasoline in his satchel?" asked the eccentric gentleman after he had been told of the airplane's narrow escape.

"I thought it strange myself," said Tom, "but he claimed he always carries some with him to remove grease spots from his clothes."

"Ha! He must be quite a character. I suppose aboard a salvage boat folks get their clothes pretty dirty, at that."

After the boys returned home it was decided that they and Mr. Britten would set out for Florida the next morning. In the meantime, the elderly diver telegraphed his caretaker to get the "Betsy B." in order and arrange to hire a tug-boat.

[Ill.u.s.tration: They Planned to Start the Next Day]

Late in the afternoon Tom called his chum on the phone. "Can you spare me a few minutes?" he asked. "Think I'm going to have something interesting to show you."

"Be right over," replied Ned. "Where are you?"

"In the lab."

A few minutes later young Newton had joined his friend. "What's up?"

he asked Tom as he entered.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "What's up?" Asked Ned]

Tom had discovered that his bendable gla.s.s mixture had cooled to a critical temperature, making it necessary to remove it from the furnace at once lest it be ruined. In a small secret chamber beneath his private laboratory he had set up a sort of miniature gla.s.s works which would have astonished any ordinary gla.s.s worker, for the young inventor had devised an entirely new method of procedure. As to its outcome, well, even to its inventor that feature remained in doubt.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A Miniature Gla.s.s Works]

"Do you think it'll work, Tom?" asked Ned Newton anxiously as he followed the youthful scientist down the stairs. "Your experiments have cost a mint of money already--"

"Don't croak," chuckled Tom. "I've a few pennies left, haven't I?"

"You won't have so very many after you finish with your new telescope idea," declared Ned grimly. "And THAT certainly won't bring in any dividends."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ned Followed Tom]

"Nor is it intended to," said Tom a bit sharply. "There is, you know, such a thing as pursuing knowledge for its own sake."

"I'm sorry. You ought to know, though, that I'm thinking only of your interests, not of mine," he said as they reached the room below.

"Forgive me, old man!" Tom clapped Ned warmly on the back. "Don't feel for a minute that I don't appreciate everything you've done for me. To tell you the truth, I'm as worried about this new gla.s.s as you are.

That's why I jumped on you. Let's forget it!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Forgive Me, Old Man!"]

"Right!"

The two were standing now before the cylindrical furnace containing the mixture of silicates and other ingredients from which Tom Swift hoped would emerge a gla.s.s as flexible as rubber and as strong as steel. The thermometer on the front stood at twenty-one degrees Centigrade.

[Ill.u.s.tration: They Looked at the Thermometer]

"She's just right," muttered the inventor, consulting a complicated chart hanging on the wall. "Now we'll see!"

The asbestos-coated door clanged open. Tom drew out a shallow tray, the contents of which were buried in a black powder.

"Charcoal!" he explained, setting the pan on a table. "It prevents any rapid temperature change. Even common gla.s.s must be cooled slowly or it becomes as brittle as peanut candy."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tom Drew out a Shallow Tray]

With the aid of a wooden rod Tom pulled out a gla.s.s bar about ten inches long and an inch thick. After picking it up carefully he examined it closely. In no way did the object appear different from ordinary gla.s.s.

"Well, here goes!" said the inventor and forthwith bent the bar into the shape of a horseshoe!