“For a public character,” I put in affably.
“Don’t, sir! I beg that you don’t. Your words just now made me suffer a good deal: the more, that I perceive a part of them to be true. An aëronaut, sir, has ambition—how can he help it? The public, the newspapers, feed it for a while; they fête, and flatter, and applaud him. But in its heart the public ranks him with the mountebank, and reserves the right to drop him when tired of his tricks. Is it wonderful that he forgets this sometimes? For in his own thoughts he is not a mountebank—no, by God, he is not!”
The man spoke with genuine passion. I held out my hand.
“Mr. Byfield, my words were brutal. I beg you will allow me to take them back.”
He shook his head. “They were true, sir; partly true, that is.”
“I am not so sure. A balloon, as you hint and I begin to discover, may alter the perspective of man’s ambitions. Here are the notes; and on the top of them I give you my word that you are not abetting a criminal. How long should the Lunardi be able to maintain itself in the air?”
“I have never tried it; but I calculate on twenty hours—say twenty-four at a pinch.”
“We will test it. The current, I see, is still north-east, or from that to north-by-east. And our height?”
He consulted the barometer. “Something under three miles.”
Dalmahoy heard, and whooped. “Hi! you fellows, come to lunch! Sandwiches, shortbread, and cleanest Glenlivet—Elshander’s Feast: