ed for a large window, opening from the main cabin, and was
endeavoring to raise it when Tom caught his hand.

"What are you trying to do," asked the lad, hoarsely.

"Save my life! I want to get out of this as soon as I can. I'm going
to jump!"

"Don't think of it! You'd be instantly killed. We're too high for a
jump, even into the ocean."

"The ocean! Oh, is that still below us? Is there any chance of being
saved? What can be done?" Mr. Damon hesitated.

"We must first find out how badly we are damaged," said Tom,
quietly. "We must keep our heads, and be calm, no matter what
happens. I need your help, Mr. Damon."

This served to recall the rather excited man to his senses. He came
back to the centre of the cabin, which was no easy task, for the
floor of it was tilted at first one angle, and then another. He
stood at Tom's side.

"What can I do to help you?" he asked. Mr. Fenwick was darting here
and there, examining the different machines. None of them seemed to
be damaged.

"If you will look and see what has happened to our main wing planes,
I will see how much gas we have left in the bag," suggested Tom.
"Then we can decide what is best to be done. We are still quite
high, and it will take some time to complete our fall, as, even if
everything is gone, the material of the bag will act as a sort of
parachute."

Mr. Damon darted to a window in the rear of the cabin, where he
could obtain a glimpse of the main wing planes. He gave a cry of
terror and astonishment.

"Two of the planes are gone!" he reported. "They are torn and are
hanging loose."

"I feared as much," retorted Tom, quietly, "The gale was too much
for them."

"What of the lifting gas?" asked Mr. Fenwick, quickly.

"It has nearly all flowed out of the retaining bag."

"Then we must make more at once. I will start the generating
machine."

He darted toward it.

"It will be useless," spoke Tom, quietly.

"Why?"

"Because there is no bag left to hold it. The silk and rubber
envelope has been torn to pieces by the gale. The wind is even
stronger than it was last night."

"Then what's to be done?" demanded Mr. Damon, with a return of his
alarmed and nervous manner. "Bless my fingernails! What's to be
done?"

For an instant Tom did not answer. It was constantly getting
lighter, though there was no sun, for it was obscured by scudding
clouds. The young inventor looked critically at the various gages
and indicators.

"Is--is there a