mattered not, so powerful were the propellers of the Falcon.
"I think we're gaining on them," murmured Mr. Damon.
Suddenly, from the engine room, came a cry from Ned.
"Tom! Tom!" he shouted. "Something is wrong with the gas machine! She registers over five hundred pounds pressure, and that's too much. It's going up, and I haven't touched it!"
"Mr. Damon, take the wheel!" exclaimed the young inventor. "I've got to see what's wrong. Hold her right on their trail."
Tom sprang to the motor room, and one glance at the gas generating machine showed him that they were in dire peril. In some manner the pressure was going up enormously, and if it went up much more the big tank would blow to pieces.
"What is it?" cried Ned, from his position near the light.
"I don't know! Something wrong."
"Are you going to give up the chase?"
"I am not. Stick to the light. Koku, tell Mr. Damon to hold her on the course I set. I'll try to get this pressure down!" And Tom Swift began to work feverishly, while his ship rushed on through the night in danger, every moment, of being blown to atoms. Yet the young inventor would not give up, and descend to earth.
