“Well, where are you?”
“Right down here, dummy!”
Bob flew to the side of the car, hunkered upon the locker and peered over. There, a few feet down, was Fitz Mee hanging to one of the broken ropes.
“Why—why, Fitz, what are you doing down there?” Bob asked foolishly.
“Oh, just enjoying myself; surely you can see that,” the goblin sneered wrathfully. “But I’ve had enough; I’m no pig. Pull me up.”
“I don’t know whether I can or not,” Bob answered. “But reach me up your hand; I’ll try.”
After a deal of struggling and kicking and grunting on the part of both, Fitz was safely aboard.
“I thought I was a goner when I fell over,” he panted; “I just happened to catch the rope.” Then, with unusual feeling: “And you saved us both, Bob, by thinking to let out the air. I couldn’t have hung on, in that storm, a minute longer; and, then the balloon was fast going to wreck. It was my foolhardiness that caused all the trouble, and your thoughtfulness that got us out of it. I’ll never go back on you, Bob, old boy, never! But now the storm’s past, we must get under way again.”
“Will the selector work?” the boy asked in some anxiety.
“It’ll be all right, now,” the goblin assured him. “See? Off we go again. And I’ll give her an extra turn for good speed; I’m keen to get along toward home. It must be the middle of the forenoon.”