“I believe we are over a desert island,” said her friend cheerfully. “I’ve not seen any lights for an age.”
The conversation was interrupted by a tremendous wrench, and the car was wrestling with another tree-top.
“That was a rather thrilling moment!” laughed Anne Trevelyan.
“I tell you what,” said Bob, not laughing at all, “at the first open space we come to, down we go! We’re sinking every minute, and I don’t want to stop her with my nose against the next oak we strike.”
He spoke quietly, but the others understood their danger, and all four peered down over the edge of the car in breathless silence, while the balloon moved on in a series of irregular bounds, as the trail-rope encountered more or less resistance. A faint grey line now became visible ahead, where the belt of trees ended.
“If we clear the trees, I’ll pop the valve,” said Bob quietly. “There must be open ground beyond. Be ready with the anchor, Anne; Jocelyn will help you. It’s a night for the ripping line, and I’ll manage that myself.”
All four clung to the rigging in silence for some moments. Then the report of the suddenly opened valve rang through the air like a muffled gunshot. Two seconds passed, not more, and Bob ripped.
“Look out for the bump, girls!”
The fast sinking car descended, slanting on the wind, till it struck the ground with considerable force and was instantly overturned. The four clung on with all their might, almost where they were, while Trevelyan ripped again; the balloon swayed wildly, darted forward a couple of yards, wrenching the car along after it, and then collapsed like a dying game-cock.
Bob crawled out of the wreck first, and then helped the others, and in the gloom the two young girls silently straightened their hats; for that is the first impulse of feminine humanity after an accident. If a woman could be raised from the dead by radium, which begins to look possible, she would straighten her hat before doing anything else.