"I would rather that it were over Serbia, Montenegro or Greece," said the fourth occupant of the airship, Colonel Harry Anderson of His British Majesty's service. "I'm beginning to get a little cramped up here. I'd like to stretch my legs a bit."
"You won't ever stretch them again, you may be sure of that," said a hollow voice, none other than that of Anthony Stubbs, American war correspondent, who now aroused himself enough to predict dire results.
"What?" said Colonel Anderson. "And why won't I ever stretch my legs again?"
"The undertaker'll do it for you," groaned Stubbs. "This contraption is bound to come down pretty quick and when it does it'll be all off."
"Can't see why that should worry you any," remarked the colonel cheerfully. "It won't be your funeral."
"No, but I'll have one at about the same time," Stubbs moaned. "I go down when you do."
He raised his voice a trifle. "Let's go down, Hal," he continued. "I'm awfully sick."
"Go down nothing," ejaculated Chester. "Think we want to give the
Austrians another chance at us, huh?"
"Better be shot by an Austrian than to die in this infernal machine," declared Stubbs in a feeble voice.
"This," said Chester calmly, "is an airship and not an infernal machine."