ted together lengthwise along the edges, and they will form a balloon
with enough lifting power to take up a parachute and small passenger,
say a kitten or a puppy."

"We must tell them how to fill this balloon with hot air," I suggested.

"That's so," said Stevens. "Well, it's very simple. They must dig a
trench, in the yard or somewhere, five feet long and one foot deep, with
a hole dug at one end for a fire. Then they must cover over the trench
with pieces of tin and spread dirt over that, and boards over all; this
is for a good draught. Then they must make a fire in the hole at one end
of the trench out of barrel-staves or anything that will give a hot
flame, and toward the last they might throw on a little kerosene.
That's exactly the way we make our fires for big ascensions.

"At the other end of the trench they must fix a length of stove-pipe
sticking straight up out of the draught-hole into the mouth of the
balloon and four or five boys must stand around on fences and boxes to
hold the side of the balloon away from the fire which will shoot high
above the chimney. Many a big hot-air balloon has been burned up that
way on a windy day, and in our ascensions we have dozens of ropes sewn
all over the balloon sides; we call them wind guys, so that men can pull
the cloth away from the fire while it's filling. Say, talking about boys
getting spanked, I must tell you a story."

The story was from his own boyish experience--how he made his first trip
to the clouds at the age of twelve, and set a whole city talking. This
was the city of Cleveland, Ohio, where on a certain Sunday afternoon
there was to be a balloon ascension at the great pleasure park. Young
Stevens, of course, was present, wild with excitement, for balloons had
been in his thoughts and dreams ever since he could remember. He pressed
forward through the crowd and, with bulging eyes, watched the aeronaut
arrange his barrels and pipes for the hydrogen-making, danced with
delight as the great bag swelled and struggled, and finally was bitter
in disappointment when the police appeared suddenly with orders to
prevent the ascension, because the day was Sunday.

Then, while the balloonist was protesting and pleading, Stevens formed
his plan. He would go up himself instead of the man. There was the
balloon all ready, held by a single rope. There was the basket swinging
impatiently, empty, and he more impatient than the basket. Quickly he
turned to a boy who wa