Not one of them but knew the perils of such an undertaking. Should the wind shift, they might be carried out over the sea. On the other hand, they might be forced to make a landing in the heart of the vast, barren lands, and in that case, they must surely starve. The balloon cabin would carry them all, but there would be little room left for provisions.
Not one of them hesitated. Boldest of them all was the beautiful girl who stuck close to Dave’s side, watching his every move with big admiring eyes, and, at spare times, learning to speak bits of his language.
The balloon was at last inflated. Provisions were loaded. The wind was beginning to shift. They would be off in a few hours. All were expectant. A tense nervousness gripped them, a sensation composed half of hope and half of despair. They were eating the evening meal in the common mess hall by the cliff when a sound utterly strange to the Russian’s ears smote the silent air. It was a thundering pop-pop-pop.
Dave turned white. Jarvis sprang to his feet with a wild howl on his lips.
“The ’eathen! The bloody, bloomin’ ’eathen. It’s the engine.”
He was right. It was the engine. It was thundering out its wild song of power and speed, and its voice was growing more distant.
As they crowded from the mess cabin, they saw the balloon hanging in midair. Watching they saw it move slowly southward. On the bridge by the cabin stood two small figures.
“The ’eathen! The bloody, bloomin’ ’eathen!” cried Jarvis.
“We might have known,” groaned Dave. “They’re oriental and so is the engine.”