“All ri—oh! Here! Wait!” cried Hawkins, grabbing my coat and pulling me back. “Sit down!”
“What for?”
“The—the—the wings!” stuttered the inventor. “The—the wind!”
“Great Scott!” I shouted as a sudden breeze caught the wings and tilted the basket far to one side. “Let me out!”
“No, no!” shrieked Hawkins wildly. “You'll break your neck, man! We're right on the edge of the roof now, and——”
And we were over the edge!
There was the street—miles below! Sickening dread choked me. I closed my eyes and gripped the basket as the accursed thing swayed from side to side and threatened every instant to precipitate us on the hard stones.
But it grew steadier presently. I looked about.
There was Hawkins hanging on for dear life, and white as death, but still serene. There, also, were numerous graveled roofs—some twenty feet below.
We were going up! Also, I was startled to note that the high wind was driving us down-town at a rapid pace.