"I never saw one that would travel successfully. This one, though, seems to be going in good shape."
"You haf seen palloons meppy?"
"More than I can count," said he. "I've been up in balloons a dozen times. When I was in the Berkshire Hills they used to have races, and start from Pittsfield. That's where I began making ascensions."
Carl dropped his wondering eyes to Matt for a moment.
"You vas der plamedest feller!" he exclaimed. "You haf tone more t'ings as any feller I ever see, und you nefer say nodding ondil it shlips oudt, like vat it toes now."
Motor Matt made no answer to this. Just then his attention was completely absorbed by the air-craft.
As near as he could judge, the cigar-shaped gas-bag was more than a hundred feet long. Beneath the bag was suspended a light framework. Midway of the framework was an open space, containing a chair in which sat the man who was handling the motor. Out behind the driver the framework tapered to a point, and at the end of this rearmost point was the whirling propeller. The glittering blades caught the sun in a continuous sparkling reflection, which made the air-ship appear to be trailed by a glow of fire.
Forward of the cockpit, or open space, was the motor. A rail ran around the cockpit.
There were two men in the car—the one in the driver's seat and another in front of him, leaning over the rail. This second man seemed to be looking at the two boys, and to be waving his hand and giving directions to the driver.
Along the side of the gas-bag Matt was able to read the name "Hawk," printed in large letters.