That afternoon we forgathered in the Fair Grounds.  The racing was uninteresting, and presently Angela suggested that we should go up in the captive balloon.  We had watched it ascending and descending with interest.  Some of our friends bored us by describing at too great length the panoramic splendour of the view.  Angela and Ajax wanted to soar, Thorpe and I preferred Mother Earth; to Jim was offered the casting vote.  He spun a dollar to decide, and within a few minutes the five of us were seated in the wicker-car.  I remember that our aeronaut inspired confidence in Angela because he wore the Grand Army medal.  A windlass and a donkey-engine controlled the big rope which held us captive.  We went aloft in a series of disagreeable and upsetting jerks.  This may be an unusual experience, but it was ours.  I am a bad sailor, and so is Ajax.  Neither of us smiled when Thorpe addressed the veteran as—­“Steward!”

Suddenly there came a still sharper jerk, and the cable split.  The balloon seemed to leap upwards, swerved like a frightened bird, and then, caught by the wind, sailed upward and seaward, swooping on with a paradoxically smooth yet uneven flight.

“Jeeroosalem!” ejaculated our aeronaut.  Then he added coolly enough:  “Sit tight; you’ll none of you be the worse for this little trip.”

His confidence diffused itself agreeably.  Angela laughed, Thorpe’s face relaxed, Jim peered over the edge of the car.

“Gad!” said he, “we seem to be going a tremendous pace.”

The veteran took a squint alow and aloft as he fingered the rope that opened the valve.  Next time he spoke the confidence had leaked from his voice, leaving behind a nervous squeak.

“This yere valve won’t work!”

“Oh!” said Angela.

She looked at Thorpe as if seeking from him some word, some sign, of comfort and encouragement.  At the same moment she made an instinctive movement towards him.  Jim was staring at her, very pale.  I saw him half-open his lips and then close them.  Frightened as I was, I can swear that Jim was thinking only of his wife and what he could read upon her face.  Thorpe was quite impassive, but his fingers were twitching.  Then I heard Jim’s voice curiously distinct—­

“What are you going to do?”

“The valve may work loose.  Anyways, she leaks a bit.  Guess we’re all right.”

Once more his confidence diffused itself subtly, and again a phrase shattered it.

“How far is San Lorenzy from the ocean?”

“Eleven miles,” said Ajax.

“We’re sailin’ plumb into the fog.”

In late October the sea fog generally begins to roll up about four o’clock.  If the breeze is from the land, the fog is kept at bay for an hour or two.  As a rule, the breeze fails, and then the fog asserts its dominion over all things on land and sea.  Without knowing much of aerial navigation, I grasped the fact that we were being swept into the fog, and that if we intended to descend on land there was not a minute to be lost.  Thorpe, I fancy, had arrived at the same conclusion.  He said in a queer, high-pitched tone—­