ding, much of the space of which, was
taken up by machinery, queer tools and odd devices, many of them
having to do with the manufacture of aeroplanes, for Tom had as many
of them as some people have of automobiles.

"I say, dad!" cried Tom, waving the letter above his head, "what do
you think of this? Listen to--"

"Easy there now, Tom! Easy, my boy, or you'll oblige me to do all my
work over again," and an aged man, beside whom a younger one was
standing, held up a hand of caution, while with the other hand he
was adjusting some delicate piece of machinery.

"What are you doing?" demanded the son.

"Bless my scarf pin!" exclaimed the other man--Mr. Wakefield
Damon--"Bless my rubbers, Tom Swift! What SHOULD your father be doing
but inventing something new, as he always is. I guess he's working on
his new gyroscope, though it is only a guess, for he hasn't said ten
words to me since I came out to talk to him. But that's like all
inventors, they--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Damon," spoke Mr. Swift with a smile, "I'm
sure--"

"Say, can't you listen to me for five minutes?" pleaded Tom. "I've
got some great news--simply great, and your gyroscope can wait, dad.
Listen to this letter," and he prepared to read it.

"Who's it from?" asked Mr. Damon.

"Mr. Jacob Illingway, the African missionary whom you and I rescued,
together with his wife, from the red pigmies!" cried Tom. "Think of
that! Of all persons to get a letter from, and SUCH a letter! SUCH
news in it. Why, it's simply great! You remember Mr. and Mrs.
Illingway; don't you Mr. Damon? How we went to Africa after
elephant's tusks, with Mr. Durban the hunter, and how we got the
missionaries away from those little savages in my airship--don't you
remember?"

"I should say I did!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "Bless my watch
chain--but they were regular imps--the red Pygmies I mean, not the
missionaries. But what is Mr. Illingway writing to you about now,
Tom? I know he sent you several letters since we came back from
Africa. What's the latest news?"

"I'll tell you," replied the young inventor, sitting down on a
packing box. "It would take too long to read the letter so I'll sum
it up, and you can go over it later."

"To be brief, Mr. Illingway tells of a wonderful golden image that
is worshiped by a tribe of Africans in a settlement not far from
Gumba Twamba, where he is stationed. It's an image of solid gold--"

"Solid gold!" interrupted Mr. Swift.

"Yes, dad,