idea. The two padded bed-like seats, each with blankets and mattress, he
perceived, were boxes, and within he found Mr. Butteridge's conception
of an adequate equipment for a balloon ascent: a hamper which included
a game pie, a Roman pie, a cold fowl, tomatoes, lettuce, ham sandwiches,
shrimp sandwiches, a large cake, knives and forks and paper plates,
self-heating tins of coffee and cocoa, bread, butter, and marmalade,
several carefully packed bottles of champagne, bottles of Perrier water,
and a big jar of water for washing, a portfolio, maps, and a compass,
a rucksack containing a number of conveniences, including curling-tongs
and hair-pins, a cap with ear-flaps, and so forth.

"A 'ome from 'ome," said Bert, surveying this provision as he tied the
ear-flaps under his chin. He looked over the side of the car. Far below
were the shining clouds. They had thickened so that the whole world was
hidden. Southward they were piled in great snowy masses, so that he was
half disposed to think them mountains; northward and eastward they were
in wavelike levels, and blindingly sunlit.

"Wonder how long a balloon keeps up?" he said.

He imagined he was not moving, so insensibly did the monster drift with
the air about it. "No good coming down till we shift a bit," he said.

He consulted the statoscope.

"Still Monty," he said.

"Wonder what would happen if you pulled a cord?"

"No," he decided. "I ain't going to mess it about."

Afterwards he did pull both the ripping- and the valve-cords, but, as
Mr. Butteridge had already discovered, they had fouled a fold of silk in
the throat. Nothing happened. But for that little hitch the ripping-cord
would have torn the balloon open as though it had been slashed by a
sword, and hurled Mr. Smallways to eternity at the rate of some thousand
feet a second. "No go!" he said, giving it a final tug. Then he lunched.

He opened a bottle of champagne, which, as soon as he cut the wire, blew
its cork out with incredible violence, and for the most part followed
it into space. Bert, however, got about a tumblerful. "Atmospheric
pressure," said Bert, finding a use at last for the elementary
physiography of his seventh-standard days. "I'll have to be more careful
next time. No good wastin' drink."

Then he routed about for matches to utilise Mr. Butteridge's cigars; but
here again luck was on his side, and he couldn't find any wherewith
to set light to the gas above him. Or else he would hav