“That’s where he is, son.” Cranny’s voice and manner betrayed a disturbed spirit.
Bob Somers had his eye to the instrument.
“Yes, fellows; I can see Major Carroll plainly,” he exclaimed. “He’s looking this way through a field-glass. There isn’t a bit of doubt in my mind that he has lost control of the air-ship.”
“Think he will try to clear the mountains?” queried Dave.
“Wouldn’t that be better than attempting to land in such a wind as this?” Bob suggested. “The Major doesn’t look scared—bet he knows what he’s doing.”
“But suppose that when they do have to come down, it’s in some mountain gorge?” cried Dick. “They may end up by getting lost; and, perhaps, with scarcely a bite to eat.”
“Or—or—somethin’ worse’n that—if the balloon doesn’t rise high enough to clear the mountain tops!” came from Tim Lovell.
For a few moments, each, in turn, studied the now retreating air-ship through the glass. The magic of the telescope seemed to draw the cigar-shaped craft toward them, until it appeared as if but a tantalizingly short distance away.
“It looks as if they only had to yell, an’ we could hear ’em,” said Tim Lovell.
Soon, however, the details began to lose their crispness and become merged in the general mass.