her face. Thorpe was quite impassive, but his fingers were
twitching. Then I heard Jim's voice curiously distinct--

"What are you going to do?"

"The valve may work loose. Anyways, she leaks a bit. Guess we're all
right."

Once more his confidence diffused itself subtly, and again a phrase
shattered it.

"How far is San Lorenzy from the ocean?"

"Eleven miles," said Ajax.

"We're sailin' plumb into the fog."

In late October the sea fog generally begins to roll up about four
o'clock. If the breeze is from the land, the fog is kept at bay for an
hour or two. As a rule, the breeze fails, and then the fog asserts its
dominion over all things on land and sea. Without knowing much of
aerial navigation, I grasped the fact that we were being swept into
the fog, and that if we intended to descend on land there was not a
minute to be lost. Thorpe, I fancy, had arrived at the same
conclusion. He said in a queer, high-pitched tone--

"Can't you stick a knife into the balloon?"

"It ain't easy, and it's mighty risky."

Jerking at the two ropes in his hands, he spoke collectedly, in an
indifferent tone--the tone of a man who has confronted death often,
who realises his impotence, who submits apathetically to impending
fate, whether good or ill.

"It's very cold," said Angela. Jim began to unbutton his jacket.
"Don't," she said sharply; "all the coats in the world wouldn't warm
me."

"Stick a knife into the confounded thing," repeated Thorpe.

"S'pose you do it," said the veteran snappishly.

Thorpe stood up at once, staggered, and fell upon the floor of the
car. He could master a broncho, but he had never attempted to boss a
balloon. The old man smiled.

"A man," said he, "may be mighty smart on land and behave like a baby
in a balloon. You sit tight, mister."

The balloon was now careening like a racing-yacht in a squall. We had
met opposing currents of air in the debatable area where wind and fog
struggled for the mastery. The fog had the mighty trade wind behind
it, forcing it landward. Already we were approaching the sand-dunes,
the very spot for an easy descent if we could descend.

"Gosh, I've done it!"

Above I could hear the soft, sibilant sound of the escaping gas, not
unlike the hiss of a snake. I was also sensible that my heart, not to
mention other important organs, was trying to get into my throat.

"Valve must ha' bust," said the old man. "Stand by to throw out
ballast."

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