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 mine. 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.
"We must get you ashore at once and to a doctor," said Mr. Swift. "You must be badly burned."
"Not much. Only my hands, where some burning pieces of canvas fell on 'em. If I had a little oil to put on I'd be all right."
"I can fix you up better than that," put in Tom. "I have some vaseline."
"Good! Just the thing. Pass it over," and the man, though he spoke shortly, seemed grateful for
