“Well, it might be done; yes, it might be done, and that with no very serious difficulty, my lad.”
“How? Why not try it on, then?”
“To meet with instant death outside?” sharply queried Bruno. “It would be suicidal to make the attempt, even if we could; which I doubt.”
Waldo gave a sudden cry, pointing upward where, far above that destructive storm, could be seen a brace of buzzards floating on motionless wings, wholly undisturbed by the tumult below.
“If we were only like that!” the lad cried, longingly. “If a flying-machine could be built like those turkey-buzzards! I wish—well, I do suppose they're about the nastiest varmints ever hatched, but just now I'd be willing to swap, and wouldn't ask any boot, either!”
Apparently the professor paid no attention to this boyish plaint, for he was fumbling in the locker, then withdrew his hand and uncoiled an ordinary fish-line, with painted float attached.
Before either brother could ask a question, or even give a guess at his purpose, Professor Phaeton flung hook and cork into those circling currents, only to have the whole jerked violently out of his grip, the line flying upward, to vanish from the sight of all.
That jerk was powerful enough to cut through the skin of his hand, but the professor chuckled like one delighted, as he sucked away the few drops of blood before adding:
“I knew it! It CAN be done, and if the worst should come to pass, why should it not be done?”
Before an answer could be vouchsafed by either of the brothers, the pall swooped down upon them once more, and again the supply of natural air was shut off, while their vessel was rocked and swayed crazily, just as though the delayed end was at last upon them.