"Something's happened!" cried Tom.

"Maybe an explosion of the airship gas!" yelled Mr. Sharp, making
ready to run to the balloon shed. But there was no need. The crashing
of wood ceased, and, above the puffing of an auto could be heard a
voice exclaiming

"Bless my very existence! Bless my cats and dogs! Good gracious! But I
never meant to do this!"

Tom, his father and Mr. Sharp rushed to the long, low windows that
opened on the veranda. There, on the porch, which it had mounted by
way of the steps, tearing away part of the railing, was a large
touring car; and, sitting at the steering wheel, in a dazed sort of
manner, was Mr. Wakefield Damon.

"Bless my shirt studs!" he went on feebly. "But I have done it now!"

"What's the matter?" cried Tom, hastening up to him. "What happened?
Are you hurt?"

"Hurt? Not a bit of it! Bless my moonstone!

It's the most lucky escape I ever had! But I've damaged your porch,
and I haven't done my machine any good. Do you see anything of another
machine chasing me?"

Tom looked puzzled, but glanced up and down, the road. Far down the
highway could be discerned a cloud of dust, and, from the midst of it