The Forecaster smiled. He liked pluck.
"All right, my boy," he said, "come along, if you want to. Still, I think Ross is right."
Over fields and woods they ran, but it was an hour before Bob, lean, wiry and silent, pointed to the sky.
The weather expert pulled up the mule and drew out his field glasses.
"Yes," he said, "that's the string of kites, sure enough. But they're going up, boys, not coming down."
"Going up, sir?" exclaimed Tom. "They couldn't be! They must be coming down. All the kites were out of sight when the wire broke."
"They have come down, of course," the Forecaster replied, "but they're certainly going up now. And, what's more, they're going up fast."
"But they can't be!" the boy protested. "The wire isn't holding on to anything."
"How do you know?" the meteorologist rejoined. "Perhaps the wire has got foul of something. I remember, once, how Eddy of Bayonne had a string of nine kites get away from him. They crossed the water between New Jersey and Staten Island. The owner had to take a train and then a small boat after them. On Staten Island he took another train and then a street car, and another street car, all the time hanging out of the window, to keep track of the fugitives, which were sailing away merrily."