"Keep a firm hold on that rope!" cried the man in the car. "We've got to ascend and get away from that sailboat."
The nose of the Hawk tilted sharply upward, the propeller whirred at steadily increasing speed, and the air ship bore swiftly away with the dripping form of the Dutch boy swinging underneath.
Crack! crack! came the reports from Brady's revolver.
Carl, however, was not a good target, and, besides, Brady had to fire from the pitching deck of the Christina. All the bullets flew wide, and before Brady could fire more than three shots the air ship was out of range.
The Dutch boy's position was in no wise comfortable for his nerves. The Hawk was steadily mounting toward the clouds, and Carl was swaying underneath like a pendulum. As soon as the air ship was out of pistol range of the Christina, however, hands were again laid on the rope and Carl was jerked up to the car and pulled to safety.
"Well, great spark plugs!" cried the voice of Motor Matt. "Of all the brain twisters I ever ran up against, this takes the banner! Where did you come from, Dick? And how does it happen Carl is with you?"
Matt was in a chair at one end of the open space in the middle of the car, his hands on the levers that worked the mechanism and controlled the motor.
Ferral, wet as a drowned rat, was sitting up on the floor of the car, his back against the rail. Across from him was Carl. In the other end of the car were the other two passengers. One of these wore the uniform of a policeman.
Ferral's novel situation filled him with wonder. His eyes were darting all around him, above at the swelling gas bag, around him at the machinery, the propeller, the rudder and space, and below him at the heaving expanse of water.
"Well, strike me lucky," he breathed, "but all this seems like a dream. Am I doing a caulk, and imagining I'm wide awake? If I am, pinch me, somebody."