The upward tilt was frightful, but necessary if a wreck in the treetops was to be avoided.
Never a word had come from Margaret Manners. White as a ghost, she held to her place, swaying her body to preserve a poise against the tilt and pitch of the huge framework.
The wheels brushed against the outer ends of the tree limbs, but the machine continued to glide into the air, walking upward as though climbing the rounds of a ladder.
If the motor had failed from any cause, there could have been no harmless gliding back to earth. A sheer drop downward would have been the result.
But the motor performed its work, and the trees presently hid the Hindoos and screened the Comet from any further attack.
Then, and not till then, did the king of the motor boys draw a full breath.
"Are you holding on, Miss Manners?" asked Matt.
"Yes," was the reply in a stifled voice.
"You're not afraid?"
"No."