"Can't you stick a knife into the balloon?"
"It ain't easy, and it's mighty risky."
Jerking at the two ropes in his hands, he spoke collectedly, in an indifferent tone--the tone of a man who has confronted death often, who realises his impotence, who submits apathetically to impending fate, whether good or ill.
"It's very cold," said Angela. Jim began to unbutton his jacket. "Don't," she said sharply; "all the coats in the world wouldn't warm me."
"Stick a knife into the confounded thing," repeated Thorpe.
"S'pose you do it," said the veteran snappishly.
Thorpe stood up at once, staggered, and fell upon the floor of the car. He could master a broncho, but he had never attempted to boss a balloon. The old man smiled.
"A man," said he, "may be mighty smart on land and behave like a baby in a balloon. You sit tight, mister."
The balloon was now careening like a racing-yacht in a squall. We had met opposing currents of air in the debatable area where wind and fog struggled for the mastery. The fog had the mighty trade wind behind it, forcing it landward. Already we were approaching the sand-dunes, the very spot for an easy descent if we could descend.
"Gosh, I've done it!"