“Haul in, you idiots!” bellowed the officer through the telephone. “Can’t you see we’re trying to stand on our heads?”
“Waiting for orders, sir,” came back the answer. “Hauling down now till ordered to stop.”
“You’d better,” growled the major. “Hang on so you don’t get thrown out!” he called to Grace.
The Overton girl needed no advice in that direction. She was clinging to the basket’s edge with all her might. The balloon adopted new tactics. The instant the winch down there began to wind in, the balloon, as if resentful of this interference with its “sport,” began to buck and dive. At one time the wicker basket was actually lying on its side, and as Grace lay on her stomach against it she found herself gazing straight down three-and-a-half thousand feet.
“Captain” Grace closed her eyes to shut out the sight. It was just a little more than she could stand. A few seconds later she was on her feet again, for the balloon had righted. Now the bag began to whip the air.
“Let go!” she heard the balloonist call through the telephone. “Trying to crack the whip with us? Not ready to bump our heads on the ground just yet. Up five hundred more. Maybe we’ll find a better streak there. Anyway we’ll ride it out, wind or no wind.”
The balloon eased a little, and while it still bucked there was less kick, so to speak, in its movements.
The respite, however, was a brief one, and again those fearsome tactics were resumed.
Major Colt glanced at Grace during a brief lull. She nodded and forced a smile to her face.
“Are we in great danger?” she shouted.