As Willie Sloan, much relieved, began walking toward the forward end, a sudden jolt swung him against the rail. He uttered a startled exclamation, and looked below.
“Oh, goodness—goodness!” he wailed, thoroughly alarmed. “The anchor has torn loose.”
The balloon had, indeed, resumed its drift toward the mountain.
“It’s ketched onct; it’s likely to ketch ag’in,” cried Kindale, encouragingly.
Willie breathlessly watched the anchor, seemingly but a tiny speck, slipping and sliding over a bald ridge of rock. He braced himself and held tight to the slanting rail. The feelings of a shipwrecked mariner, who sees his vessel being borne through the surging waves toward a line of foam-crested breakers, and destined to be pounded to pieces on a rocky shore, took possession of him. His eyes were fixed, by turns, upon a broad white surface towering high above them. At about their own level, he saw bold reddish crags and steep slopes partly covered with fir and pine.
“Can’t anything be done, Major Carroll?” he asked, despairingly.
“The anchor is our sole dependence,” answered the millionaire. Then, as he noted the blank look which came over the boy’s face, he hastened to add: “We are not in any danger. Keep cool, and trust to us.”
Several times the trailing anchor seemed on the point of arresting their progress again; but just as Willie began to feel his hopes revive, the tremendous strain on the cable tore it free, and each minute the “Border City” was drifting nearer and nearer to the barrier. The men stood by the lad, awaiting developments in silence.
“It’ll strike head-on, sir,” said Kindale, in a voice which reached only the Major’s ears.
The rocks and trees stood out dark and grim amidst the somber, sullen-looking landscape, but with a clearness which showed how near they were. Willie watched in breathless suspense, while the air-ship slowly swung about in the cross-currents of wind.