"We're dropping toward them again!" yelled the man below.
Matt turned in his seat, letting the aëroplane take care of itself. Throwing himself back, he caught at the hooded brown head with his hand.
There was a dart, quick as lightning, and Matt's wrist was touched as though by a hot coal. With a loud cry he flung his arm forward, dragging the full length of the cobra from the wires.
For the fraction of an instant the snake hung in midair, then yielded to the impetus of the arm to which it held and coiled sinuously outward and downward into space.
The motor had again resumed its work, but the Comet hung at a frightful angle and was dropping like so much lead, the atmosphere striking the planes almost on their edges.
Matt was calm, now, and cool as ever. He went to work at the levers, righted the machine within fifteen feet of the bobbing heads, and sent it upward into the air. He was alone, for Le Bon, when so close to the ground, had dropped. In fact, owing to the length of the trapeze ropes, Le Bon's feet had almost swept the heads of the terrified spectators.
Steadily upward climbed the machine.
Every moment was precious to the king of the motor boys, for if he was to receive medical aid to counteract the bite of the reptile, it could not be long deferred.
But what was the use of indulging in hope?
He had been bitten by the cobra, and the lecturer in the museum had declared that a person so injured could not hope.