Half an hour passed. Border City, left further and further behind, became a curious-shaped mass of grayish white against the gloomy waste of plain.
The engineer tinkered; the Major tinkered; and, doubtless, Willie would have tinkered had there been a chance. But their efforts continued to be unavailing.
“Oh, goodness! Is there any danger of us staying up here forever?” piped Willie.
“Depends upon three things, son—the engine, the wind, and Major Carroll,” answered Kindale, gruffly.
The financier squared his jaw.
“I don’t want to lose any of the gas, except as a last resort, Kindale,” he said, emphatically. “We had trouble enough getting the bag in its present fine condition.”
“The wind ain’t goin’ down none, sir.”
“All the more reason for making every effort to avoid descending. A landing would be difficult, and might have disastrous consequences to the balloon.”
“You’re right, sir.”
“And even at the worst we can float in safety until the wind simmers down.”