“I remember now,” he went on in a drawling, reminiscent tone. “It was a quick drop. Valve blew out. A regular smash when we landed. She’s a wreck, isn’t she? And say,” and the man glancing sideways downward shuddered, “if I had gone the full header it would have been all day with me, eh?”
Frank nodded. Briefly he explained how he had come to discover the refugee’s plight. He helped the man to sit up, guiding and assisting him. The latter came slowly out of his maze of bewilderment, and looked grateful.
“You’ve saved me, I guess,” he observed. “One move or slip, and I’d have gone shooting down the rest of the way.”
“When you are ready, let me help you to the ground,” suggested Frank.
“Oh, I’m all right now. Just a little shaking up,” assured the man. “No, no, don’t you worry. I’m at home among trapezes.”
The balloonist extricated himself successfully from the swaying branches and poised in a crotch nearer to the main trunk of the tree.
“Just a minute,” he said, deftly going up the tree, clambering over the shattered basket and reaching up.
There was a great hiss and a dense taint of escaping gas in the air as he operated some valve in the mechanism of the balloon. The gas bag dropped gracefully to a mass of silken and rubber folds.
Then the man started to descend, Frank preceding him. Both reached the ground in safety. The balloonist took an approving look at Frank, patted Christmas and began arranging his disordered attire.