“Let her go,” ordered Paul, boldly.
Like a stone from a sling, the sled shot off into the cold, breathless night. On and on under the stars it flew, its runners grating with a sharp, musical note on the close-packed snow, for that afternoon there had been a lot of sleighing on the grade.
“She won’t rise!” exclaimed Tubby. “She’s like me. Built for a career close to the ground.”
“Hold on. I’m not so sure about that,” exclaimed Rob the next instant. “Look!”
As he spoke a strange thing happened. The sled seemed to rise from the earth as if drawn upward by some invisible force. Even at that distance they could see Paul’s body shift as he strove to maintain his balance on the contrivance.
Up and up the strange bird-like craft climbed, till it was about ten feet above the ground. It skimmed along for a hundred feet or so and then came down to earth again with a bump that unseated the inexperienced rider and sent him tumbling head first into a snow bank. But, as the others came running down the hill, Paul extricated himself and gave a shrill cheer.
Up and up the strange bird-like craft climbed, till it was about ten feet above the ground.
“Hooray, fellows! She works!” he cried. “It’s a success.”
“It’s a success as a dumping machine, I’ll admit,” sniffed Tubby.