There was nothing to be seen around us now but mountains of clouds—clouds white, black, and grey. I saw them, and yet, somehow or other, I could not bring myself to realize what they meant. I could not think, but simply stood there, bewildered and dazed, leaning against the side of the car. On my right hand the boy still continued his maddening wail; on the left my second companion, a man, kept asking what his father and mother would think. Our peril seemed to have temporarily turned his brain.

2 SEPTEMBER 1902.
BALLON DISASTER.
A LEATHERHEAD LABORER KILLED.
THRILLING ADVENTURES OF AMATEUR AERONAUTS.

The ballon versus cyclists, which was arranged by the Rev. G. M. Bacon, of Newbury, the ballooning enthusiast, with the sanction of the War Office, and which took place from Stamford-bridge athletic grounds on Saturday, was, it was transpire, attended with an accident of a very serious character, resulting in the death of one man, injuries to several others, and an experience which three of those involved are never likely to forget as long as they live. The

A CUTTING FROM THE “MORNING LEADER” REFERRING TO THE BALLOON DISASTER.
[Click here for image.]

I glanced at the altitude-registering instrument; we were up two thousand feet! Then, suddenly, without the slightest warning, my brain cleared, and I remembered the valve, the opening of which would cause the great gas-bag to descend. But where was it? Which was the valve-rope? The car seemed all ropes as I turned anxiously this way and that. I tried one after another, and at last, to my joy, I felt one give. Then I smelt the escaping gas, and knew that I had struck the right cord. Very soon I realized that our upward way was checked, and that instead we were descending. I do not know how long we took over the downward trip. I only remember that I pulled the rope, then slacked it, and so on alternately until we could faintly hear the shouts of those below. Presently the boy plucked up courage to look over the side of the car, and, wild with joy, called out that we were saved. Fortunately for us, there was practically no wind; we went up straight and came down straight, landing safely in a field only some two hundred yards from the spot where we ascended. I collapsed as they helped me out of the car, and the other man, directly he alighted, rushed headlong away—the ordeal had turned his brain.

Giving evidence before the coroner the following Monday at the inquest on poor Tickner, I still felt decidedly shaky, and to my dying day I shall never forget my trip in the runaway balloon.

THE FIELD IN WHICH THE BALLOON DESCENDED.
From a Photograph.

Some “Freak” Memorials.
By T. W. Wilkinson.