a stone but float
down gently, it'll be another mile or two at least before they strike
ground. So you've a five mile run ahead of you and you'd better settle
down into a jog trot, for you can never keep up this pace."

The faces of the boys fell at the thought of a five mile run, for while
they were all strong and vigorous, cross-country running was not one of
their regular sports.

Ross turned to the younger boys of the party, calling them by name.

"You'd better drop out," he said kindly; "you won't be able to keep it
up and there's no use getting yourselves worn out and then having to
walk back, half dead. Fred," he continued, turning to the
editor-in-chief, "you'd better quit, too."

"Not much," answered Fred, "I've got to write this up for the _Review_."

The Forecaster smiled. He liked pluck.

"All right, my boy," he said, "come along, if you want to. Still, I
think Ross is right."

Over fields and woods they ran, but it was an hour before Bob, lean,
wiry and silent, pointed to the sky.

"Kite!" he said.

The weather expert pulled up the mule and drew out his field glasses.

"Yes," he said, "that's the string of kites, sure enough. But they're
going up, boys, not coming down."

"Going up, sir?" exclaimed Tom. "They couldn't be! They must be coming
down. All the kites were out of sight when the wire broke."

"They have come down, of course," the Forecaster replied, "but they're
certainly going up now. And, what's more, they're going up fast."

"But they can't be!" the boy protested. "The wire isn't holding on to
anything."

"How do you know?" the meteorologist rejoined. "Perhaps the wire has got
foul of something. I remember, once, how Eddy of Bayonne had a string of
nine kites get away from him. They crossed the water between New Jersey
and Staten Island. The owner had to take a train and then a small boat
after them. On Staten Island he took another train and then a street
car, and another street car, all the time hanging out of the window, to
keep track of the fugitives, which were sailing away merrily."

"Chasing a kite with a train and a street-car sounds funny," puffed
Tom.

"On Staten Island," the Forecaster continued, "the wire caught in a
telegraph post, and, of course, as soon as the wire held, the kites took
the proper angle to the wind and shot up in the air again. Before Eddy
could reach the place, the wire chafed through and broke again, but the
kites had risen another mile or mo