back into the basket and said as calmly as he could, ‘Guess we’re going to take a ride.’
Roger looked down to see the roof of the station scudding by beneath.
‘Holy smoke!’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s slide down the trail rope while there’s still time.’
‘And lose the balloon? Heaven knows where it may smash up.’
‘I’d rather not be in it when it does,’ Roger said fervently. ‘Can’t we do something? How about pulling the valve line? That will let out some gas and the balloon will settle down.’
‘And tear itself to pieces on the trees,’ Hal guessed. ‘And smash us to bits at the same time. We must be almost up to the trees already.’
He snatched the flashlight from its bracket and played it downwards. Its light did not reach the ground. He turned it off and put it back. The roof of the station had been white and therefore visible. But now in the gathering darkness everything below was blotted out.
‘Doesn’t seem as if we’re moving at all,’ Roger said.
While they had been anchored they had been forced to shout to make themselves heard above the roar of the wind through the rigging and around the great ball. Now there was complete silence.
‘That’s because we’re riding the wind, not resisting it,’ Hal said. ‘But we’re not standing still. That was a forty-mile-an-hour wind. That means we’re shooting along at forty miles an hour at this very minute.’
The silence was now broken by a rushing sound ahead.
‘Quick!’ said Hal. ‘Sandbags out.’
‘What is that sound?’ said Roger as they began throwing out sand.
‘Wind in the trees. If we can get enough sand out in a hurry we may rise above them. If we strike them, it’s all up.’
Hal flashed a light on the altimeter.
‘We’re only a hundred and ten feet up - that’s not good enough. Some of these kapoks top a hundred and fifty.’ More sand went over the side.
The whoosh of the wind tearing at branches and leaves told them they had almost arrived. The balloon was rising, but slowly. They could not possibly reach a hundred and fifty in time.
Roger kept throwing out sand. Hal was hauling up the rope ladder. It must not be allowed to get tangled in the branches. The trail line should come up too, but there was no time for that.
Then they struck. The impact nearly threw them out
of the basket. Leaves and twigs thrashed into their faces. Now that they were no longer moving with the wind, they felt the full force of it.
Would branches puncture the bag? Hal directed his light up. No, the bag was above the treetops. Only the basket had struck.
‘What do we do now?’ came from Roger. ‘Climb out?’
Hal circled the light outside the basket.
‘Not a branch strong enough to hold a monkey.’
‘Gee, that’s bad.’
‘No, that’s good. If nothing big is holding us we may pull free.’
Vain hope. Another gust drove the basket deeper into the tree. Hornbills disturbed in their nests flew off with a great whoop and holler. This bird utters its cries through a hollow nose-chamber that makes every squeak come out like a blast of a bassoon. This did nothing for the boys’ nerves.
A more powerful burst of wind sent the basket scraping and shuddering through the treetop. Hal had been pulling in the trail line. Now it had caught on something and stubbornly refused to let loose. He exerted all his strength but without effect.
What he could not do the wind did for him. A stronger blast than ever struck the great forty-foot bag and tore the basket and the trail line out of the clutching grasp of the big tree.
They were once more riding the wind and were able to finish pulling in the trail line. Roger shouted with joy. It seemed for a moment as if all their troubles were over. Now all they had to do was to select a nice smooth spot without trees, let out some gas, and come down.
But it was not to be so simple. If there was any smooth spot without trees, they had no way of seeing it. And away from the
Roger looked down to see the roof of the station scudding by beneath.
‘Holy smoke!’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s slide down the trail rope while there’s still time.’
‘And lose the balloon? Heaven knows where it may smash up.’
‘I’d rather not be in it when it does,’ Roger said fervently. ‘Can’t we do something? How about pulling the valve line? That will let out some gas and the balloon will settle down.’
‘And tear itself to pieces on the trees,’ Hal guessed. ‘And smash us to bits at the same time. We must be almost up to the trees already.’
He snatched the flashlight from its bracket and played it downwards. Its light did not reach the ground. He turned it off and put it back. The roof of the station had been white and therefore visible. But now in the gathering darkness everything below was blotted out.
‘Doesn’t seem as if we’re moving at all,’ Roger said.
While they had been anchored they had been forced to shout to make themselves heard above the roar of the wind through the rigging and around the great ball. Now there was complete silence.
‘That’s because we’re riding the wind, not resisting it,’ Hal said. ‘But we’re not standing still. That was a forty-mile-an-hour wind. That means we’re shooting along at forty miles an hour at this very minute.’
The silence was now broken by a rushing sound ahead.
‘Quick!’ said Hal. ‘Sandbags out.’
‘What is that sound?’ said Roger as they began throwing out sand.
‘Wind in the trees. If we can get enough sand out in a hurry we may rise above them. If we strike them, it’s all up.’
Hal flashed a light on the altimeter.
‘We’re only a hundred and ten feet up - that’s not good enough. Some of these kapoks top a hundred and fifty.’ More sand went over the side.
The whoosh of the wind tearing at branches and leaves told them they had almost arrived. The balloon was rising, but slowly. They could not possibly reach a hundred and fifty in time.
Roger kept throwing out sand. Hal was hauling up the rope ladder. It must not be allowed to get tangled in the branches. The trail line should come up too, but there was no time for that.
Then they struck. The impact nearly threw them out
of the basket. Leaves and twigs thrashed into their faces. Now that they were no longer moving with the wind, they felt the full force of it.
Would branches puncture the bag? Hal directed his light up. No, the bag was above the treetops. Only the basket had struck.
‘What do we do now?’ came from Roger. ‘Climb out?’
Hal circled the light outside the basket.
‘Not a branch strong enough to hold a monkey.’
‘Gee, that’s bad.’
‘No, that’s good. If nothing big is holding us we may pull free.’
Vain hope. Another gust drove the basket deeper into the tree. Hornbills disturbed in their nests flew off with a great whoop and holler. This bird utters its cries through a hollow nose-chamber that makes every squeak come out like a blast of a bassoon. This did nothing for the boys’ nerves.
A more powerful burst of wind sent the basket scraping and shuddering through the treetop. Hal had been pulling in the trail line. Now it had caught on something and stubbornly refused to let loose. He exerted all his strength but without effect.
What he could not do the wind did for him. A stronger blast than ever struck the great forty-foot bag and tore the basket and the trail line out of the clutching grasp of the big tree.
They were once more riding the wind and were able to finish pulling in the trail line. Roger shouted with joy. It seemed for a moment as if all their troubles were over. Now all they had to do was to select a nice smooth spot without trees, let out some gas, and come down.
But it was not to be so simple. If there was any smooth spot without trees, they had no way of seeing it. And away from the
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