“There is a way to do it,” cried Dooley, angrily. “Confound you for a blockhead! We shall soon get to heaven at this rate. Let me see it, you ass!”
But Dooley had no better luck! Still upward raced the air-ship. The two rascals were in a state of terror.
Cold perspiration oozed from their pores and they trembled as if with the ague.
“I didn’t mean to do it, skipper,” declared Bowler, aghast; “it was an accident. Won’t we ever get back to the earth?”
“Not at this rate,” huskily declared the senior villain.
And now an alarming state of affairs ensued. The air grew so rare that their eyeballs began to ache and cold chills seized them.
“Great Jericho!” gasped Dooley. “I can’t stand this. I’ve heard it said that when you get a certain number of miles up in the air you can find no air to breathe and you must stifle.”
“Great lobster pots!” wailed the terrified Bowler; “stop the thing some way.”
“I can’t,” said Dooley, in despair.
“I can!” came a calm voice from the cabin. Dooley wheeled as if shot.