"I say, mother, Mr. Carey's going to take me to the balloon
ascent. Isn't it good of him?"
Mrs. Keen turned to the kindly faced, bearded man who
had followed her son into the cottage kitchen. "It is most
kind of you, Mr. Carey. Clifford has been longing to go
ever since he heard about Professor Starley. But"—sadly—"I
couldn't even find the necessary quarter for admission."
"Won't you come, too, Mrs. Keen?" said Carey cheerily.
"Do you no end of good."
She shook her head. "No, I won't come," she said gently.
"But perhaps you will come back to tea with us afterward."
Carey said he would gladly do so, and he and Clifford
started for the fair ground, from which the famous aëronaut,
Professor Starley, was going to make an ascent by balloon
and a drop by parachute.
"Wish your mother had come, Cliff," said Mr. Carey, as
they walked up the street.
"Wish she had, too," echoed the boy. "But she never goes
anywhere now. Tell you the truth," he went on, lowering his
voice, "I believe she's afraid of any of our old friends recognizing
her. You're the only one we keep up with."
"Oh, but that's foolishness!"
"I've told her so lots of times," declared Clifford. "But
you know it's pretty hard to come down from a nice house
to a cottage like that. Not that I care," he hastened to add.
"But it's tough for mother. Fancy her having to do all the
cooking! And she's got no nice clothes like she used to have
before dad was drowned."
Mr. Carey shook his head gravely. "She's always fretting
about him," he said. "I don't wonder. It was a terrible
business altogether. And what made it worse was leaving
her almost penniless."
He paused. "Cliff, do you know I've always suspected that
that fellow Moise didn't treat your mother squarely?"
"Have you, Mr. Carey?" cried the boy eagerly. "D'you
know, I've often thought the same thing myself. Seems a
bit queer, after dad had always had lots of money, that old
Moise should swear there was nothing left except about five
hundred dollars. Don't you think there's something awfully
queer about Moise's face? He never looks at you straight."
"I've noticed that myself," said the other dryly. "But
here we are. We'll talk about this again some other time."
The crowd was tremendous. All Dunthorne seemed to
have turned out. As they worked their way through the
masses of people Clifford Keen could see over their heads
the great varnished globe swaying in the breeze.
Clifford was not the sort to be content with a back seat.
He wormed his way through the packed throng till he
reached the very front row, where a number of volunteers
were holding the mooring ropes. The breeze was brisking,
and the balloon tugged and leaped like a live thing.
"Here, sonny, catch a hold!" came a quick voice as a
powerfully built man in tights and spangles caught sight of
the boy's eager face. "Don't let go till I tell you. Mind!"
Clifford seized the rope delightedly.
Starley sprang back into the open space underneath the
balloon. The balloon had no car, only a trapeze. On this
Starley seated himself, holding the side ropes tight with both
hands. The parachute, Clifford noticed, was fastened up
against the side of the balloon.
"Now, gentlemen, when I give the word I want you all to
release the cords at the same instant. The wind makes——"
At that very moment came such a gust that Starley's
speech was cut short. The balloon came whirling over almost
on top of Clifford, and two men who had hold of the
same rope let go and sprang out of the way with shouts of
alarm.
"Cowards!" muttered Clifford, holding on tighter than
ever.
He knew nothing whatever of the lifting power of a
balloon. Next instant as the gust passed the balloon came
back with a jerk to the perpendicular, and Clifford was
swung completely off his feet.
Before he could realize what had happened or make up
his mind to let go he was far above the heads of the crowd.
From the whole fair ground rose an extraordinary sound—a
deep groan. It was this that first made the boy realize the
extreme peril of his position.
Nineteen boys out of twenty finding themselves dangling
at the end of a rope in mid-air would have let go at once, and,
of course, been smashed to atoms. Clifford happened to be
the twentieth. The first thing he did was to crook his right
leg in the rope, the second to shut his eyes in order to arrest
the horrible dizziness which made his head swim like seasickness.
The next thing he was conscious of was a quiet voice from
above.
"Say, sonny, can you climb up here?"
Clifford looked up. The aëronaut, seated on the crossbar
about ten feet above him, was looking down with a cool
expression, which helped to restore Clifford's confidence.
"I'll try," he answered.
"Come right along, then. Don't get flustered. It's just
as easy as climbing a tree. And say, you keep looking at me.
Don't look down."
"All right," replied Clifford briefly, and started to swarm
up the rope. He was rather indignant at Starley's suggestion
as to his getting flustered. Up to the time of his father's
death he had always meant to be a sailor. He prided himself
he could climb and stand heights as well as most chaps.
All the same, he wished the rope wouldn't swing so. To
climb a cord that is describing great arcs in mid-air is rather
different from swarming one in a school playground.
"That's first class," said Starley encouragingly. "Keep a
good grip with your legs. Come on."
He held out an encouraging hand. Clifford found time to
marvel at the airy ease with which the aëronaut balanced on
the thin bar of the trapeze, holding by one hand only.
Another yard, and strong fingers clutched his collar. Next
moment he was seated beside Starley on the trapeze.
At first this was almost worse than the rope. For the life
of him the boy couldn't help looking down, and it gave him
a curious shock to see men like black insects crawling among
toy buildings, and little carriages moving down streets no
wider than a window sill.
For a moment his head reeled, and he felt that horrible
impulse to let go and fling himself down.
Starley's strong arm was round him. "All right, sonny,
you'll get over that in a jiffy. When you feel fit again we
must hold a council of war."
"I'm all right," declared Clifford, half angrily. He was
savage with himself for giving way. "What are we going to
do now?"
"That's just the trouble," replied the American with a dry
smile. "It beats me to know how we're going to get back to
the solid."
"Can't we both go down in your parachute?"
Starley shook his head. "She'll take my weight, and not
ten pounds more. If we both hung on to her we'd rip the
stuffing out of her, and there'd just be a splash to show where
we hit the floor."
Clifford glanced at his companion with startled eyes.
"There's worse than that, sonny," went on the other. "You
see, this isn't like a balloon that'll come down just when
you like by pulling a valve cord. She's just an old thing I
use for these descents, and trust to pick up wherever she
happens to fall."
"Then you and I can't go down together?" said Clifford
sharply.
Starley shook his head.
"What'll happen, then?"
"We'll go on up till we freeze and can't hold on any longer
and drop off, or else the balloon'll bust, and we'll both come
down a bit too quick for the good of our health."
"Is there nothing else we can do?" cried the boy.
"There's just one other chance," replied the aëronaut. "If
you've got the pluck to take the parachute, I'll climb up in
the netting and put my knife through the cover of the balloon.
If I rip her enough she'll come down all right."
"That wouldn't be fair," returned Clifford sharply. "You
take the parachute. I'll stick to the balloon."
Starley hesitated a moment. "Have you got the nerve
to climb up there"—pointing aloft—"and cut the cover?"
"Yes," said Clifford firmly.
"Reckon he'd be safer that way," muttered the man to
himself. Then, aloud: "If you can do it you'll be safe
enough, sonny. Safer by chalks than if you take the parachute.
It's an ugly job, anyway you look at it, but the parachute's
the worst for a beginner. The jerk when she opens
pretty near takes the arms out of you, and we're up all of
three thousand already."
He pulled out a big clasp knife, and handed it to Clifford.
"Let's see you up on the ring before I let loose," he said.
"You'll feel a bit safer so long as you haven't got to climb
it alone. But look sharp. We're still rising, and the wind's
carrying us pretty sharp."
Clifford took the knife, slipped it into his coat pocket,
and, clutching the side rope of the trapeze, set his teeth and
began to climb.
For a horrid moment the ghastly dizziness clutched him
again. But he set his teeth, and swore he would not give
way to it.
Starley's weight kept the rope taut, and it was easier to
climb than the other had been.
At last he was clinging to the iron ring of the parachute,
with the great globe of varnished silk immediately above
him.
"Are you right, sonny?" cried the aëronaut, looking up.
"Yes," called back Clifford with a cheeriness he was far
from feeling.
Then as he swung a leg over the ring and pulled himself
up sitting, both hands clutching the netting, he saw Starley
lean over and grasp the rope of the parachute.
"Rip her well, and as high up as you can. And hang on
till she reaches the ground," were Starley's last words of
advice.
Then he gave the parachute rope a sharp jerk, there was
a slight ripping sound, and the man dropped like a plummet
toward the distant earth.
The balloon, relieved of his weight, made an enormous
bound upward.
For a full thirty seconds the boy clung there, unable to do
anything but watch Starley shooting down into the awful
depths below. He gave a gasp of relief as the parachute at
last opened like an umbrella, and went sailing away earthward
as gently as a feather.
Then he got out his knife. "Now for it," he muttered
bravely.
By this time the balloon was nearly a mile above the earth,
and the breeze had long ago carried it clear of the town. It
was sailing over what looked to Clifford like a patchwork
quilt of little fields and woods and farmsteads, with here and
there the silver ribbon of a river.
The whole position was so amazing that Clifford found it
sheerly impossible to believe that one brief half hour before
he had been one of those ants that he now saw crawling at
such an enormous depth beneath him.
Clinging here close to the side of the balloon envelope the
boy felt safer. He had something more or less solid to hold
on to. He was so interested and excited that for the moment
he almost forgot about the knife.
It was the cold that brought him to himself again. Down
below it had been a warm if breezy September afternoon.
Up here Clifford, in thin summer clothes, was rapidly chilling
to the bone. His fingers were already blue.
He looked at them blankly. "If I don't hurry up they'll
be too stiff to use the knife," he said half aloud. He opened
the knife with his teeth, and, taking a long breath, stabbed
boldly at the silk.
The blade flashed through with a ripping sound, and gas
gushed out in such volumes that Clifford, half suffocated,
was forced to hastily abandon his position and clamber a
little way round out of reach of the rush.
Learning by experience, he reached as high as he could
stretch, and made a long, sideways gash, then dropped hastily
back to the ring.
"That's done it!" he cried delightedly. For the cut was
followed by a long, hissing tear. The envelope had split for
several feet, and the lower part was rapidly crumpling like a
burst bladder.
He glanced down. It looked exactly as if fields and houses
were rushing up to meet him. The balloon was dropping
at tremendous speed.
At the same time Clifford noticed that the shadow of the
balloon was swishing across the fields at almost the pace of
an express train. He had dropped into a swift air current,
and the rapidly deflating balloon was actually traveling at
more than thirty miles an hour.
A small town loomed below, with a tall factory chimney
sticking spike-like from its centre.
"If I hit that I'm a gone coon," muttered the boy, but the
balloon passed far above its smoking summit, and swirled
away over villas and gardens toward a wood.
Clifford saw people looking up, heard shouts of surprise
and alarm, but he was past it all in a minute and swinging
down toward the wood.
A fresh spasm of fright seized him as he saw the tall
trees bending in the gale.
But the balloon scudded just above their leafy tops, and
swooped toward a large square building, which lay in its
own grounds surrounded by a high brick wall.
Even in the one flashing glance he caught of the place
there was something sombre and forbidding about it. The
tall gray walls, the barred windows, the dark elms, and the
heavy shrubbery.
Now the balloon was flying straight for the outer wall.
With a shout of alarm Clifford scrambled wildly into the
netting. Just in time. With a loud clang the iron ring
struck the top of the wall. It caught a second, the whole
envelope heeled over, the branches of a thick yew tore Clifford
from his hold, and the last thing he remembered was
the thump with which he reached the ground.
A face was the first thing Clifford caught sight of when
he opened his eyes again.
Such a face! Huge, dull, heavy, with deep, sunken eyes,
which shone out with a lurid light from under cavernous
eyebrows.
They were fixed upon the boy with such a beast-like glare
that Clifford, sick and shaken with his heavy fall, could only
lie and gaze and vaguely wonder whether he was awake or
dreaming.
Gradually as his senses came back he realized that he was
lying on a grassy path, and the owner of the eyes, a tall,
powerfully built man, was sitting on a moss-grown log leaning
over him.
But who and what he was, and why he glared in this
ghastly fashion, never attempting to offer help, Clifford could
not imagine.
The fixed stare was slowly hypnotizing him. He made an
attempt to roll out of reach of the horrible eyes.
Instantly a long arm shot out, and fell on his shoulder
with a grip painful in its vise-like strength.
"You'll do," said the owner of the eyes in a queer, hoarse
voice.
"Do what?" muttered the boy faintly.
"To kill," replied the man in the coolest tone imaginable.
"Oh, I must be dreaming!" thought Clifford. But the painful
grasp on his shoulder was good proof he was doing nothing
of the sort.
"Nice and young and tender!" said the brute, licking his
leathery lips. He let go of Clifford's shoulder, and suddenly
produced from his pocket an ordinary table knife. Clifford
saw with a shudder that its blade had been ground to razor-like
keenness.
The man ran a finger along the sharp edge—ran it so carelessly
that the thin steel ripped the skin, and blood dropped
to the grass.
At the sight of the blood his dull face turned to a mask of
fury, and he sprang to his feet with a howl resembling that
of a wild beast hungry for its food.
The movement broke the spell. Clifford bounded to his
feet, and, ducking just in time to escape a vicious stab, ran
for dear life toward the house.
With a scream of balked fury the man was after him.
Bruised and shaken as he was, Clifford had never in his
life before run so fast. At first he gained a little, but presently
the long legs of his pursuer began to tell, and he heard
the hot panting so close behind that each moment he expected
to feel the sharp steel buried in his back.
The path ran right up under the blank windows of the
silent house. Reaching the angle, Clifford swerved wildly to
the right. A figure was standing by the door.
With a wild yell of "Help!" Clifford dashed toward it.
To his horror it vanished, slamming the door in his face.
Once more Clifford dodged, and reached an opening in the
thick shrubbery which bordered the drive. As he dashed in
among the trees his foot caught in a root, and down he came
with a crash that knocked the remaining breath out of him.
His pursuer was so close that he could not stop, and,
tripping over the boy, went over on his head, burying his
knife deep in the ground.
At the same moment a gaunt, middle-aged man with a
gray beard and hair burst out of the thick bushes alongside,
and hurled himself upon Clifford's assailant.
Clifford, scrambling wildly to his feet, saw the big man
struggling to rise. He was howling with rage, and in his
bull-like fury was throwing the other about like a feather.
Clifford glanced round. A dead branch lay close by. It
was the work of an instant to snatch it up and bring it with
all his force across the great head of his would-be murderer.
"Well done!" cried the gray-bearded man, as the other
straightened out and lay still. "I've often told them that
Prynne was dangerous. But how did you get here?"
He turned, and for the first time caught sight of Clifford's
face.
For a moment the two stared at one another in an amazement
beyond any description.
Then staggering back, with face white as chalk, the elder
man muttered, "Clifford!"
"Father!" replied the boy, unable to believe his eyes.
At this moment footsteps crunched on the gravel of the
drive.
The gray-bearded man recovered himself. "They're coming,"
he hissed in a tense whisper. "Don't let on you know
me. Moise put me here. Tell Carey."
It was all he had time to say before a wandering man
burst upon them.
"What's up here?" he cried gruffly. Then, catching sight
of Clifford, "And what are you doing here?"
"Dropped in a balloon," retorted Clifford sharply. The
man's tone was most offensive. "This brute"—pointing
to the insensible man—"tried to kill me. He must be mad."
The warder burst into a hoarse guffaw. "Mad—of course
he's mad. They're all mad here."
Then like a thunder clap the truth burst on Clifford. His
scoundrelly partner had immured his father in this horrible
place. The boy blazed with fury. It was all he could do
to keep down the rage which consumed him.
But he did it. He turned to the warder. "The sooner I'm
clear of the place, the better I shall be pleased," he said.
"Perhaps you'll kindly show me the way out."
"The sooner you're out the better, my lad," returned the
man with an ugly grin. He led the way to a tall iron-spiked
gate, unlocked it, and, with a sigh of intense relief, Clifford
found himself on the highroad.
That the first passer-by told him he was eighteen miles
from home, every step of which he would have to tramp,
hardly made the slightest impression on the eager excitement
with which Clifford looked forward to the release of his
father.
Three days later Mr. Keen and his wife met once more.
As for Moise, when he found that his villainy was discovered,
he took what ready cash he could lay hands on, and
vanished with all speed. Clifford is never tired of hearing
his father tell of the shipwreck and the injury to his head,
which gave his ex-partner the opportunity to declare him
mad, and imprison him under a false name in the private
asylum from which he was so wonderfully rescued.
Since his liberation Mr. Keen has made use of a part of
his recovered fortune to force an investigation of the methods
employed in the private asylum. And the owner of the house
with the barred windows found himself in such extremely
hot water that he followed Moise's example and cleared out
of the country.
