“Hold on at life-ropes!” shouted the Professor, knife in hand.
In another instant the basket gave a dreadful surge; a mass of pine boughs swept about our heads, followed by a strong jerk. The Professor had cut the cord which bound the anchor coil. The anchor had dropped and caught among the limbs. We were safe! No! not yet.
THE PROFESSOR’S DILEMMA.
The line must be shortened so we could clear the tree-tops. All three tugged at the rope. Then other lashings were made while the great aerostat plunged about like a wounded leviathan. We were eighty feet from the ground. Two of us found it convenient to go down the drag-rope, but the poor Professor, tall and heavy, preferred to try the tree. This was wet and slippery, as well as full of projecting points of broken branches. About twenty feet from the ground the Professor’s clothes caught. He was in a great dilemma.
Amid a good deal of laughter we managed to liberate him, and as he reached the ground he exclaimed: “Well, of all the scrapes I was ever in, this is about the meanest!”
But help came even here. Far down the slope we heard a shout, which you may be sure was quickly answered. Then, after a while, the bushes parted and a half-score of woodsmen carrying gleaming axes ran to our aid. They were all thoroughly wet, like ourselves.
“What can we do for you?” they asked.
“Cut down half a dozen of these pines. I want to save the balloon,” answered the aeronaut.