A
windlass and a donkey-engine controlled the big rope which held us
captive. We went aloft in a series of disagreeable and upsetting
jerks. This may be an unusual experience, but it was ours. I am a bad
sailor, and so is Ajax. Neither of us smiled when Thorpe addressed the
veteran as--"Steward!"
Suddenly there came a still sharper jerk, and the cable split. The
balloon seemed to leap upwards, swerved like a frightened bird, and
then, caught by the wind, sailed upward and seaward, swooping on with
a paradoxically smooth yet uneven flight.
"Jeeroosalem!" ejaculated our aeronaut. Then he added coolly enough:
"Sit tight; you'll none of you be the worse for this little trip."
His confidence diffused itself agreeably. Angela laughed, Thorpe's
face relaxed, Jim peered over the edge of the car.
"Gad!" said he, "we seem to be going a tremendous pace."
The veteran took a squint alow and aloft as he fingered the rope that
opened the valve. Next time he spoke the confidence had leaked from
his voice, leaving behind a nervous squeak.
"This yere valve won't work!"
"Oh!" said Angela.
She looked at Thorpe as if seeking from him some word, some sign, of
comfort and encouragement.
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