"What's happened?" I thought. "Has it kinked a muscle, broken a bone, or . . . ?"
My mental query was answered by the dramatic appearance of first one free arm and then another. The scene was strangely reminiscent of one of those turns at a music hall, when a man undertakes to escape from a complexity of knotted ropes in so many minutes. It thrilled me by its cleverness; but it scared me by its dangerous possibilities.
In an instant I had my revolver out and kept the brute covered. As long as it remained quiet, it was safe; but the moment it got out of that seat it would be a dead gorilla.
I saw Newland glance round at me and take in the whole situation. He brought the machine a little closer to the other and, as he did so, the gorilla grew alarmed, raised its hands in the air and sought for a hold amidst the struts.
"My God! The controls!" I thought, swiftly. "If it touches one of those, Oakley's done!"
I took a steady aim, pressed my finger to the trigger and fired three times in rapid succession.
But I was too late. The gorilla was hit at the precise moment that it had grabbed one of the thin wires on which so much depends when a man is in mid-air.
Down went the great roaring machine—spinning round and round like a falling leaf in an autumn gale. For over two thousand feet it must have dropped. And then, I saw a little brown speck fall out into space. The machine nose-dived, flattened out, switchbacked, and gradually began to ascend into the blue heavens again.
"Good old Oakley!" I thought. "You're a marvel, man!"
As he came up, so we glided down to meet him, until at last I could wave my handkerchief as a sign of approval and welcome.