as he alighted from the airship. "That's my new searchlight you're looking at."
"Bless my" began Mr. Damon, but he couldn't think of nothing strong enough for a moment, until he blurted out "dynamite cartridge! Bless my dynamite cartridge! Tom Swift! His searchlight! Bless my nitro-glycerine!"
Then Tom shut off the glare, and, as Mr. Damon and his wife came aboard he showed them how the light worked. He only used a part of the current, as he knew if he put on the full glare toward Mr. Damon's house, neighbors might think it was on fire.
"Well, that's certainly wonderful," said Mrs. Damon. "In fact this is a wonderful ship."
"Can't you take Mrs. Damon about, and show her how it works," said Mr. Damon suddenly. "Show her the ship."
"I will," volunteered Tom.
"No, let Ned," said the eccentric man. "I—er—I want to speak to you, Tom."
Mrs. Damon, with a queer glance at her husband, accompanied Ned to the motor room. As soon as she was out of hearing the odd gentleman came over and whispered to the young inventor.
"I say, Tom, what's up?"
"Smugglers. You know, I told you about 'em. I'm going after 'em with my big searchlight."
