“Can’t you stick a knife into the balloon?”

“It ain’t easy, and it’s mighty risky.”

Jerking at the two ropes in his hands, he spoke collectedly, in an indifferent tone—­the tone of a man who has confronted death often, who realises his impotence, who submits apathetically to impending fate, whether good or ill.

“It’s very cold,” said Angela.  Jim began to unbutton his jacket.  “Don’t,” she said sharply; “all the coats in the world wouldn’t warm me.”

“Stick a knife into the confounded thing,” repeated Thorpe.

“S’pose you do it,” said the veteran snappishly.

Thorpe stood up at once, staggered, and fell upon the floor of the car.  He could master a broncho, but he had never attempted to boss a balloon.  The old man smiled.

“A man,” said he, “may be mighty smart on land and behave like a baby in a balloon.  You sit tight, mister.”

The balloon was now careening like a racing-yacht in a squall.  We had met opposing currents of air in the debatable area where wind and fog struggled for the mastery.  The fog had the mighty trade wind behind it, forcing it landward.  Already we were approaching the sand-dunes, the very spot for an easy descent if we could descend.

“Gosh, I’ve done it!”

Above I could hear the soft, sibilant sound of the escaping gas, not unlike the hiss of a snake.  I was also sensible that my heart, not to mention other important organs, was trying to get into my throat.

“Valve must ha’ bust,” said the old man.  “Stand by to throw out ballast.”

The bottom of the car was covered with sacks of sand.  Ordinarily one unties the sacks and the sand is allowed to trickle out in a harmless stream.  I peered over the side.  The balloon was now, so to speak, on an even keel, falling almost perpendicularly.  I saw, far down, a flash of blue.

“Chuck ’em out, boys!”

Several sacks went overboard, and at once my solar plexus felt easier.  Again I peered down and saw nothing.  The fog had engulfed us, but I could hear the crash of the big combers as they broke upon the rocks to the north of Avila.

What followed took place within a few seconds.  We were encompassed by thick dank fog.  The balloon was perfectly steady, descending less quickly, but with inexorable certainty, into the ocean.  Around, an uncanny silence encompassed us; above, we could hear the hiss of the serpent; below, the menacing roar of the breakers.  Then the old man said curtly—­

“Hurry up, boys.  If we can get her up again, we may just strike the dunes.  What wind there is blows from the west.”

We threw out the rest of the sacks.  The balloon rose and slowly sank again.  The old man took off his coat.

“I can’t swim worth a cent,” he muttered grimly, “but I’m a-going to try.  If she tumbles quietly into the water, the wind may blow us ashore.”

A few more seconds passed.  I heard a queer noise and discovered that my teeth were chattering.  Thorpe was taking off his boots.