alter the perspective of man's ambitions. Here are the notes; and on the
top of them I give you my word that you are not abetting a criminal. How
long should the _Lunardi_ be able to maintain itself in the air?"

"I have never tried it; but I calculate on twenty hours--say twenty-four
at a pinch."

"We will test it. The current, I see, is still north-east, or from that
to north-by-east. And our height?"

He consulted the barometer. "Something under three miles."

Dalmahoy heard, and whooped. "Hi! you fellows, come to lunch!
Sandwiches, shortbread, and cleanest Glenlivet--Elshander's Feast:

"'Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies----'

Sheepshanks provided the whisky. Rise, Elshander: observe that you have
no worlds left to conquer, and, having shed the perfunctory tear, pass
the corkscrew. Come along, Ducie: come, my Daedalian boy; if you are not
hungry, I am, and so is--Sheepshanks--what the dickens do you mean by
consorting with a singular verb? _Verbum cum nominativo_--I should say,
so _are_ sheepshanks."

Byfield produced from one of the lockers a pork pie and a bottle of
sherry (the _viaticum_ in choice and assortment almost explained the
man) and we sat down to the repast. Dalmahoy's tongue ran like a brook.
He addressed Mr. Sheepshanks with light-hearted impartiality as Philip's
royal son, as the Man of Ross, as the divine Clarinda. He elected him
Professor of Marital Diplomacy to the University of Cramond. He passed
the bottle and called on him for a toast, a song--"Oblige me,
Sheepshanks, by making the welkin ring." Mr. Sheepshanks beamed, and
gave us a sentiment instead. The little man was enjoying himself
amazingly. "Fund of spirits your friend has, to be sure, sir--quite a
fund."

Either my own spirits were running low or the bitter cold had congealed
them. I was conscious of my thin ball-suit, and moreover of a masterful
desire of sleep. I felt no inclination for food, but drained half a
tumblerful of the Sheepshanks whisky, and crawled beneath the pile of
plaids. Byfield considerately helped to arrange them. He may or may not
have caught some accent of uncertainty in my thanks: at any rate he
thought fit to add the assurance, "You may trust me, Mr. Ducie." I saw
that I could, and began almost to like the fellow.

In this posture I dozed through the afternoon. In dreams I heard
Dalmahoy and Sheepshanks lifting their voices in amo