Starley shook his head.
"What'll happen, then?"
"We'll go on up till we freeze and can't hold on any longer and drop off, or else the balloon'll bust, and we'll both come down a bit too quick for the good of our health."
"Is there nothing else we can do?" cried the boy.
"There's just one other chance," replied the aëronaut. "If you've got the pluck to take the parachute, I'll climb up in the netting and put my knife through the cover of the balloon. If I rip her enough she'll come down all right."
"That wouldn't be fair," returned Clifford sharply. "You take the parachute. I'll stick to the balloon."
Starley hesitated a moment. "Have you got the nerve to climb up there"—pointing aloft—"and cut the cover?"
"Yes," said Clifford firmly.
"Reckon he'd be safer that way," muttered the man to himself. Then, aloud: "If you can do it you'll be safe enough, sonny. Safer by chalks than if you take the parachute. It's an ugly job, anyway you look at it, but the parachute's the worst for a beginner. The jerk when she opens pretty near takes the arms out of you, and we're up all of three thousand already."
He pulled out a big clasp knife, and handed it to Clifford. "Let's see you up on the ring before I let loose," he said. "You'll feel a bit safer so long as you haven't got to climb it alone. But look sharp. We're still rising, and the wind's carrying us pretty sharp."