hat's the electrical apparatus smashing through the floor!" called
Tom. "Come, let's get out of here before the gasolene sets anything
on fire. Are you all right, Mr. Damon, and you, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Yes, I guess so," answered the inventor. "Oh, what a terrible
crash! My airship is ruined!"

"You may be glad we are alive," said Mr. Damon. "Bless my top knot,
I feel--"

He did not finish the sentence. At that moment a piece of wood,
broken from the ceiling, where it had hung by a strip of canvas came
crashing down, and hit Mr. Damon on the head.

The eccentric man toppled over on his pile of cushions, from which
he was arising when he was struck.

"Oh, is he killed?" gasped Mr. Fenwick.

"I hope not!" cried Tom. "We must get him out of here, at all
events. There may be a fire."

They both sprang to Mr. Damon's aid, and succeeded in lifting him
out. There was no difficulty in emerging from the airship as there
were big, broken gaps, on all sides of what was left of the cabin.
Once in the outer air Mr. Damon revived, and opened his eyes.

"Much hurt?" asked Tom, feeling of his friend's head.

"No--no, I--I guess not," was the slow answer. "I was stunned for a
moment. I'm all right now. Nothing broken, I guess," and his hand
went to his head.

"No, nothing broken," added Tom, cheerfully, "but you've got a lump
there as big as an ostrich egg. Can you walk?"

"Oh, I'm all right. Bless my stars, what a wreck!"

Mr. Damon looked at the remains of the airship. It certainly was a
wreck! The bent and twisted planes were wrapped about the afterpart,
the gas bag was but a shred, the frame was splintered and twisted,
and the under part, where the starting wheels were placed, resembled
a lot of broken bicycles. The cabin looked like a shack that had
sustained an explosion of dynamite.

"It's a wonder we came out alive," said Mr. Fenwick, in a low voice.

"Indeed it is," agreed Tom, as he came back with a tin can full of
sea water, with which to bathe Mr. Damon's head. The lad had picked
up the can from where it had rolled from the wreck, and they had
landed right on the beach.

"It doesn't seem to blow so hard," observed Mr. Damon, as he was
tenderly sopping his head with a handkerchief wet in the salt water.

"No, the wind is dying out, but it happened too late to do us any
good," remarked Tom, sorrowfully. "Though if it hadn't blown us this
far, we might have come to grief over the ocean, and be floundering
in th