The Man from the Clouds | Page 2

one ceases to feel wind altogether.
Neither of us spoke for some time, and then a thought struck me
suddenly and I asked:--
"Did you notice what o'clock it was when we broke loose?"
Rutherford nodded.
"I'm taking the time," said he, "and assuming the twenty knot breeze
holds, we might risk a drop about six o'clock."
"A drop" meant jumping into space and trusting one's parachute to do
its business properly. I felt a sudden tightening inside me as I thought
of that dive into the void, but I asked calmly enough:
"And assuming the breeze doesn't hold?"
"Oh, it will hold all right; it will rise if anything," said he.
We had only been shipmates for a week (that being the extent of my
nautical experience), but I had learned enough about Rutherford in that
time to know that he was one of the most positive and self-confident
men breathing. One had to make allowance for this; still, that is the
kind of company one wants in an involuntary balloon expedition across

the North Sea through a dense fog.
"And where are we likely to come down?" I enquired.
"We might make the German coast as far south as Borkum or one of
the other islands, or we might land somewhere as far north as
Holstein."
"Not Holland or Denmark?"
He shook his head positively, "No such luck."
Though this was a trifle depressing, it was comforting to feel that one
was with a man who knew his way about the air so thoroughly. I
looked at our map, judged the wind, and decided that he was probably
right. The chances of fetching a neutral country seemed very slender.
Curiously enough the chances of never reaching any country at all had
passed out of my calculations for the moment. Rutherford was so
perfectly assured.
"And what's the programme when we do land?" I asked.
"Well, we've got to get out of the place as quickly as possible. That's
pretty evident."
"How?"
"You know the lingo, don't you?"
"Pretty well."
"Well enough not to be spotted as a foreigner?"
"I almost think so."
"First thing I ever heard to the credit of the diplomatic service!" he
laughed. "Well, you'll have to pitch a yarn of some kind if we fall in
with any of the natives. Of course we'll try and avoid 'em if we can, and
work across country either for Denmark or Holland by compass."

"Have you got a compass?" I asked.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, and for a few moments a frown settled on his
bull dog face. Then it cleared again and he said, "After all we'll have to
move about by night and the stars will do just as well."
He was never much of a talker and after this he fell absolutely silent
and I was left to my thoughts. Though I had fortunately put on plenty
of extra clothes for the ascent, I began to feel chilly up at that altitude
enshrouded in that cold white mist, and I don't mind admitting that my
thoughts gradually became a little more serious than (to be quite honest)
they usually are. I hardly think Rutherford, with all his virtues, had
much imagination. I have a good deal--a little too much at times--and
several other possible endings to our voyage besides a safe landing and
triumphant escape began to present themselves. Two especially I had to
steel my thoughts against continually--a descent with a parachute that
declined to open, whether on to German or any other soil, or else a
splash and then a brief struggle in the cold North Sea. I am no great
swimmer and it would be soon over.
And so the hours slowly passed; always the same mist and generally
the same silence. Occasionally we talked a little, and then for a long
space our voices would cease and there would be utter and absolute
quiet,--not the smallest sound of any sort or kind. We had been silent
for a long, long time and I had done quite as much thinking as was
good for my nerves, when Rutherford suddenly exclaimed,
"We are over land!"
He was looking over the edge of the basket, and instantly I was staring
into space on my side. There was certainly nothing to see but mist.
"I can smell land," said he, "and I heard something just now."
"At this height!" I exclaimed.
"We are down to well under six thousand feet," said he.

I wanted to be convinced, but this was more than I could believe.
"The smell must be devilish strong," I observed. "And I'm afraid I must
have a cold in my head. Besides, it's only five-thirty."
As I have said, poor Rutherford was the most positive fellow in the
world. He stuck to it that