Clifford took the knife, slipped it into his coat pocket, and, clutching the side rope of the trapeze, set his teeth and began to climb.
For a horrid moment the ghastly dizziness clutched him again. But he set his teeth, and swore he would not give way to it.
Starley's weight kept the rope taut, and it was easier to climb than the other had been.
At last he was clinging to the iron ring of the parachute, with the great globe of varnished silk immediately above him.
"Are you right, sonny?" cried the aëronaut, looking up.
"Yes," called back Clifford with a cheeriness he was far from feeling.
Then as he swung a leg over the ring and pulled himself up sitting, both hands clutching the netting, he saw Starley lean over and grasp the rope of the parachute.
"Rip her well, and as high up as you can. And hang on till she reaches the ground," were Starley's last words of advice.
Then he gave the parachute rope a sharp jerk, there was a slight ripping sound, and the man dropped like a plummet toward the distant earth.
The balloon, relieved of his weight, made an enormous bound upward.