all got to
the trailing rope at about the same time, and began to dance over it
in their attempts to secure it. Bert came up to this wriggling, elusive
serpent and got his foot on it, went down on all fours and achieved a
grip. In half a dozen seconds the whole diffused population of the beach
had, as it were, crystallised on the rope, and was pulling against the
balloon under the vehement and stimulating directions of the man in the
car. "Pull, I tell you!" said the man in the car--"pull!"

For a second or so the balloon obeyed its momentum and the wind and
tugged its human anchor seaward. It dropped, touched the water, and made
a flat, silvery splash, and recoiled as one's finger recoils when one
touches anything hot. "Pull her in," said the man in the car. "SHE'S
FAINTED!"

He occupied himself with some unseen object while the people on the
rope pulled him in. Bert was nearest the balloon, and much excited and
interested. He kept stumbling over the tail of the Dervish costume in
his zeal. He had never imagined before what a big, light, wallowing
thing a balloon was. The car was of brown coarse wicker-work,
and comparatively small. The rope he tugged at was fastened to a
stout-looking ring, four or five feet above the car. At each tug he drew
in a yard or so of rope, and the waggling wicker-work was drawn so much
nearer. Out of the car came wrathful bellowings: "Fainted, she has!" and
then: "It's her heart--broken with all she's had to go through."

The balloon ceased to struggle, and sank downward. Bert dropped the
rope, and ran forward to catch it in a new place. In another moment he
had his hand on the car. "Lay hold of it," said the man in the car, and
his face appeared close to Bert's--a strangely familiar face, fierce
eyebrows, a flattish nose, a huge black moustache. He had discarded coat
and waistcoat--perhaps with some idea of presently having to swim for
his life--and his black hair was extraordinarily disordered. "Will
all you people get hold round the car?" he said. "There's a lady here
fainted--or got failure of the heart. Heaven alone knows which! My name
is Butteridge. Butteridge, my name is--in a balloon. Now please, all
on to the edge. This is the last time I trust myself to one of these
paleolithic contrivances. The ripping-cord failed, and the valve
wouldn't act. If ever I meet the scoundrel who ought to have seen--"

He stuck his head out between the ropes abruptly, and said, in a note
of earne