"Guess Uncle Sam can't count," remarked Kenyon, imitating to perfection the nasal drawl of the typical New Englander.
"Looks to me like shrapnel," added Bramsdean. "Judging by the way the smoke mushroomed, it reminds me of Archies over the Hun lines."
"Good enough, we'll drop gently," decided Fosterdyke. "Stand by with the holding-down lines and have a couple of grapnels ready."
The amount of brodium necessary to more than neutralise the lifting power of the gas and the dead weight of the airship was exhausted from the requisite number of ballonets, and the "Golden Hind" began to sink almost vertically in the still air.
Within five minutes she entered the belt of mist--a warm, sickly-smelling atmosphere that reminded Kenyon of a hot-house.
"I hear voices," announced Peter.
Not far beneath the airship men were shouting and talking excitedly, but the crew of the "Golden Hind" were unable to understand what the men were saying.
"Ahoy, there!" hailed Fosterdyke. "Stand by to take our ropes."
Both grapnels were carefully lowered, since there would be grave risks entailed by throwing them overboard. At the same time half a dozen holding-down ropes were paid out from each side of the nacelle. These were caught by unseen hands and the airship was quickly drawn earthwards at far too great a speed to please Sir Reginald Fosterdyke.
"Gently," he shouted. "Avast heaving."