"Are you much hurt?" asked Mr. Swift anxiously, for Tom was too
much out of breath with his exertion to ask any questions. For
that matter the man was in almost as bad a plight. He was
breathing heavily, as one who had run a long race.
"I--I guess I'm all right," he panted. "Only burned a little on
my hands. That--that was a close call!"
The boat swung around and headed for shore, on which was quite a
throng of persons. Some of them had cheered when they saw the
plucky rescue.
"I'm afraid we can't save your balloon," gasped Tom as he looked
at the place where the canvas was still floating and burning.
"No matter. It wasn't worth much. That's the last time I'll ever
go up in a hot-air balloon," said the man with more energy than he
had before exhibited. "I'm done with 'em. I've had my lesson.
Hereafter an aeroplane or a gas balloon for me. I only did this
to oblige the fair committee. I'll not do it again."
The man spoke in short, crisp sentences, as though he was in too
much of a hurry to waste his words.
"Let it sink," he went on. "It's no good. Glad to see the last
of it."
Almost as he spoke, with a final hiss and a cloud of steam that
mingled with the black smoke, the remains of the big bag sunk
beneath the surface of the lake.
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