“How are we off for ballast?” inquired Anne, as the chilly fog filled the car.
“Six bags gone already, and only two left,” Bob answered with grim calm.
“Not really?” cried Dorothy in some dismay.
“Yes. How can you expect any balloon to keep up in this rain? She’s being battered down by it. We are getting lower every minute.”
At that moment the balloon shivered like a live thing, and flapped her loose sides. Bob shovelled some sand overboard.
“We’ll keep the last bag,” he said; “but to-morrow’s breakfast must go. Pass me the bottle of milk—that’s heavy.”
Jocelyn got a big stoneware bottle from the basket by the light of the electric lamp, and gave it to Trevelyan.
“Don’t murder anybody below,” he said.
Bob dropped the thing overboard, and almost immediately a dull thud was heard out of the darkness as it struck the earth. But there was no sound of breaking; they were over a meadow or a ploughed field.
“Give me that pie,” said Bob. “Wasn’t there a magnum of champagne somewhere? It’s got to go too.”