The crowd began to press around the reel. Nothing was visible in the air, now, nothing but a thin piece of wire leading up into the sky. Had no one known that the kites were there, high above the clouds, it would have seemed like black magic. Some of the superstitious negroes began to mutter among themselves.
"Three miles!"
The boys yelled in delight.
"Up with her, Tom!" cried Fred.
"It's the amateur world's record!" announced the Forecaster.
The words were scarcely out of his lips when there came a sudden sharp crack. The kite-wire snapped close by the reel and as it curled on itself the coils appeared to run up into the sky.
"Gone! My kites are gone!" cried Tom, and a perfect howl of disappointment went up from all the boys.
"Gone!" cried the Forecaster, "of course they're gone, but we're going after them!"
Throwing himself on the back of an old mule which a darky had ridden to the kite ground, he started full tilt after the disappearing wire, the whole membership of the League streaming at his heels.