"Huh! if half we've heard about that place is true, little danger of that," declared Seth. "Chances are he dropped with a splash into a bed of muck. I only hope he don't get drowned before help comes along!"
"Help! what sort of help can reach him there?" observed Fritz, solemnly; and then once again did those eight scouts exchange uneasy glances.
"As soon as we let them know in Beverly, why, sure they'll organize some sort of relief expedition. I know a dozen men who'd be only too glad to lend a helping hand to a lost aeronaut," Andy went on to say.
"Wherever do you suppose he came from, Paul?" asked Eben.
"Say, didn't you hear him say St. Louis?" demanded Seth. "Better take some of that wax out of your ears, Eben."
"Whee! that's a pretty good ways off, seems to me," the bugler remarked, shaking his head, as though he found the story hard to believe.
"Why, that's nothing to brag of," Seth assured him. "They have big balloon races from St. Louis every year, nearly, and the gas-bags drift hundreds of miles across the country. I read about several that landed in New Jersey, and one away up in Canada won the prize. This one met with trouble before it got many miles on its journey. And he wants us to report that the Great Republic is down; Anderson, he said his name was, didn't he, Paul?"
"Yes, that was it," replied the scoutmaster.
Paul seemed to be looking unusually grave, and the others realized that he must have something of more than usual importance on his mind.
"How about that, Paul," broke out Fritz, who had been watching the face of the patrol leader, "we're about eighteen miles away from home; and must we wait till we get there to start help out for that poor chap?"