PHOTOGRAPHS OF SOUTH LONDON SUBURBS TAKEN FROM A BALLOON.
In the car we carefully stowed the cameras, the horns and tuning-forks and other acoustic instruments, the big exhausted glass bulb in which we were to bottle up a portion of the higher atmosphere for subsequent analysis, the coats and sandwiches that we might be very glad of later. The balloon was a beauty, of 40,000 odd cubic feet capacity, and had only been used twice before.
At four o'clock the patient company sitting on the grass, at a distance rigidly enforced by a stony-hearted policeman, sent a delegate to ask how much longer we should be. We could not say, but we sat and sadly regarded the swaying silk, and contemplated the ignominy of a return home. At length our captain, in whose mind feelings of prudence were plainly battling with a desire to be off, had the ring and car attached, just to see how things stood. The sand-bags all drew up together, and the balloon rose up higher into the air and began to roll, slowly and majestically, first to one side and then to the other, like a mighty pendulum.
Just at that moment came a lull in the breeze; the angry little squall-demons had whisked themselves off elsewhere; the sun came out from behind a cloud. Things looked brighter in every sense, and Captain Spencer, casting an admiring glance at his stately craft, quivering to be free, came up with a smile.
"I think we'll be off now."
There was a rustle of satisfaction among the onlookers as we sprang into the car, more especially as, the moment the sandbags were removed, the balloon became lively, and gave promise of some fun. Strong arms were holding us down, and up in the ring sat Jack, a weather-beaten old sailor, familiarly known as the "commodore," a tried and trusted servant of the Spencer family, and partner in many an adventure.
"Look here," said our captain; "the wind is stiff, and we may have a roughish descent and need help. Would it not be wiser to abandon the high ascent, part with more ballast-bags, and take up old Jack instead?"
Clearly prudence was on the captain's side, though it was with real sorrow we relinquished our pet scheme of reaching 20,000 feet. So old Jack remained in the ring, our aeronaut commenced throwing bags till we began to rise—but not far. "Hold on!" he cried to the men holding the last rope, and "Look out!" to us, as with a jarring shock the car dashed down on the grass again. Another bag, another rise, and another bump. The squall demons were coming back again, and the people were getting excited.