“Oh, I quite grasp the idea. You are not professional balloonists, probably, and do not wish to make known what you are doing.”
“No, we are not, and do not care about publicity or anything of that sort.”
“I observed that, after you came through the clouds, your balloon moved less rapidly, and just as it came nearer the earth you were almost becalmed—how do you account for that, pray?”
“I scarcely know,” replied the aeronaut; “it may have been owing to some influence I failed to notice.”
“Atmospheric, you mean,” cried the squire.
“Oh, do, papa,” interposed Miss Dove, “let us get into the Hall before the tiresome old doctor comes. He is following us with a letter in his hand.”
“Perhaps our Sydenham friend will not be in to dinner after all,” said the squire. “We will halt for one moment, please, to hear about that. How now, Doctor Peters?” added the squire; “you move as nimbly as ever.”
“I have just had a message, squire,” said the doctor in a whisper, “to say that our friend Falcon cannot keep his engagement—he may be here this evening or to-morrow. Excuse my coming in, squire.”
“Yes, yes, certainly, Peters, you amuse yourself with the balloon. Did our friend Falcon come down to Lewes?”
“I did not hear particulars,” replied the doctor; “but something has turned up to stop his arrival here.”