"That proves," argues the professor, "that parachutes are extremely dangerous."
"Nothing of the sort," answers Leo Stevens; "it only proves that there is a big difference between a sand-bag man and a real man. The sand-bag is dead weight, and the man is live weight. A parachute will open for the one where it won't open for the other."
"Why will it," queries the professor, "if the man and the sand-bag weigh the same?"
"STEVENS CAME DOWN ONCE WITH A PARACHUTE TWO MILES OUT IN THE ATLANTIC OCEAN—AND WAS PROMPTLY RESCUED."
"I don't know why, but it will," Stevens insists. "If what you say were true I'd be dead long ago, and my wife, and all my assistants."
I well remember my first visit to aëronaut Stevens at his little balloon establishment on Third Avenue, a rambling, go-as-you-please attic, with things strewn about anyhow, lengths of balloon-cloth hanging from rafters for the varnish to dry, crinkly yellow segments of balloons heaped near a sewing-machine that was stitching them into spheres, rows of hot-air balloons from past seasons ranged along on shelves in tight bundles, models of flying-machines, all kinds of parachutes, including one in red, white, and blue, made to take up a dog, and in various dusty corners photographs of Leo Stevens walking a tight rope, Leo Stevens rising to the clouds over waving multitudes, Leo Stevens (and his big umbrella) soaring down to earth from the height of twenty steeples, swinging with dancing-master grace from the bar of his trapeze. I liked this place for the good-natured faces of "Kid" Benjamin, who was scooping cold salmon out of a can when I came in, and a young lady with long eyelashes, who was running the machine.
Leo Stevens was out, said this young lady; he was seeing some patent lawyers about his new air-ship, but she was Mrs. Stevens, and could she do anything for me? I asked various questions, and she answered them from a wide practical knowledge. She had made dozens of balloons and parachutes—yes, and used them, too. It was "Kid" Benjamin who offered this latter information, remarking that she was "grand on a parachute."
Mrs. Stevens smiled, and explained that she had never made an ascension in her life until the previous summer, and then only because her husband was in a fix through the failure of another woman to appear. A balloon race had been advertised between two lady aëronauts, and when the time came one of them, Miss Nina Madison, was missing. Rather than have the thing a failure and a big crowd disappointed, Mrs. Stevens agreed to go up. She would take Miss Nina's place and race the professional. And she did it, and she won the race.