“Is it—surely this is not safe, uncle Phaeton?” ventured Bruno, as another retrograde gust of air smote their apparently frail conveyance with sudden force.
“Let's call it a day's work, and knock off,” chimed in Waldo. “If the blamed thing should take a notion to balk, and rear back on its haunches, where'd we come out at?”
Professor Featherwit made an impatient gesture by way of answer. Speech just then would have been worse than useless, for that tremendous roaring, crashing, thundering of all sounds, seemed to fall back and envelop the air-ship as with a pall.
A shower of sand and fine debris poured over and around them, filling ears and mouths, and blinding eyes for the moment, forcing the brothers closer to the floor of the aerostat, and even compelling the eager professor to remit his taking of notes for future generations.
Then, thin and reed-like, yet serving to pierce that temporary obscurity and horrible jangle of outer sounds, came the voice of their relative:
“Fear not, my children! The Lord is our shield, and so long as he willeth, just so long shall we—Ha! didn't I tell ye so?”
For the blinding veil was torn away, and once again the trio of adventurers might watch yonder grandly awesome march of devastation.
“Heading direct for the Olympics!” declared Professor Featherwit, digging the sand out of his eyes and striving to clean his glasses without removing them, clinging to tiller and camera through all. “What a grand and glorious guide 'twould be for us!”
“If we could only hitch on—like a tin can to the tail of a dog!” suggested Waldo, with boyish sarcasm. “Not any of that in mine, thank you! I can wait. No such mighty rush. No,—SIR!”
There came no answer to his words, for just then that swooping air-demon turned to vivid fire, lightning playing back and forth, from side to side, in every conceivable direction, until in spite of the broad daylight its glory pained those watching eyes.