Mansburg was the nearest large city to Shopton, and Merton was a
machinist who frequently did work for Mr. Swift.

"All right," agreed Tom. "I'll start now. How many will you need?"

"Oh, a couple of dozen."

Tom started off, wheeling his cycle from the shed where it was kept.
As he passed the building where the big frame of the airship, with the
planes and aluminum bag had been assembled, he looked in.

"We'll soon be flying through the clouds on your back," he remarked,
speaking to the apparatus as if it could understand. "I guess we'll
smash some records, too, if that engine works as well when it's
installed as it does now."

Tom had purchased the bolts, and was on his way back with them, when,
as he passed through one of the outlying streets of Mansburg,
something went wrong with his motor-cycle. He got off to adjust it,
finding that it was only a trifling matter, which he soon put right,
when he was aware of a man standing, observing him. Without looking up
at the man's face, the young inventor was unpleasantly aware of a
sharp scrutiny. He could hardly explain it, but it seemed as if the
man had evil intentions toward him, and it was not altogether
unexpected on Tom's part, when, looking up, he saw staring at him,
Anson Morse, the leader of the gang of men who had caused such trouble
for him.

"Oh, it's you; is it?" asked Morse, an ugly scowl on his face. "I