Chris stopped and stared at Amos. Perhaps balloons had not yet been invented. How very confusing!
"It's something that will hold you up in the air. There's a basket for you to sit in—"
"No sir!" Amos cried, wagging his head decisively from side to side. "Me in the air over the roofs and high up? No indeedy, Chris! Not me."
Chris was becoming exasperated. He had important things to do.
"Look, Amos. If you have to use it, you'll be in such a bad fix that being up in the air will seem like the very best thing that could happen. Stop running. I'll be back—I hope."
He turned away toward the ledge and clearing.
"And now, wish me luck, and stay here and wait for me. Don't follow me now, or watch, or I might fail."
Amos jumped up from the pine-covered ground. "Oh, Chris!" he cried, his voice sharp with distress, "can't I go? You might get hurt. There's no telling what could happen if you're all alone!"
Chris was tempted to take his friend with him but someone must get the news back to the Mirabelle if he should fail. If this happened, he did not doubt but that the magic balloon would carry Amos safely to the ship.
"No," he said after a long moment. "Better not. But I'd sure like to, Amos. Now don't lose that package. It's your escape. Wish me luck."