"Does the wind affect the safety of the machine?" he asked solicitously, gazing aloft as well as he could through the slender steel spokes to where the topmost laden settees were swinging back and forth, seemingly with added impetus in the stiff breeze.
"Not at all, sir," said the functionary, as in a parenthesis, while he counted the change, "twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five."
"There is no danger?"
"Ef ye air afeard, old man, jes' stand back an' lemme git a chanct," a country youth admonished Mr. Jardine.
"Lord sakes, stranger, take yer place, an give we uns the next turn," an elderly mountaineer suggested.
"Them folks up thar air gittin' twict the wuth o' thar money in all this wasted time," a grudging soul opined. And the rest of the crowd pressed sensibly forward.
Jardine had never been so unceremoniously addressed since he was born. But the two young ladies, who laughed on such slight provocation, were enabled to preserve an impassive gravity now, which fact he observed with a feeling of grateful relief, for he was conscious of the ridiculous plight of his elegant personality. He went on with as deliberate a dignity as if he were aware of no interruption, albeit acutely conscious of a score of eyes eagerly fixed on his face.
"No danger of the wind obstructing the revolution, and preventing the descent of passengers?" he concluded his query.
"Not at all, sir—forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five—that's O. K.—I think you'll find your change correct, sir. Take this seat."
Jardine moved forward with a young lady on each arm—suddenly, as he was about to induct Lucia into the waiting settee, he stopped immovable—"Why," he exclaimed, addressing his charges, "where is Frank?"