Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Here I leapt up and interrupted him. "Failure, sir! I shall not think of it! I'll get past those Frenchmen, and deliver my despatches, though the whole French navy were after me. Failure, sir! Not if the _Quickmatch_ and every soul aboard of her goes to the bottom! No, not even then!"

The Admiral smiled at my warmth. Of course, he did not know that my life-long happiness--Bertha, to wit--depended on my getting through with those despatches.

He poured out a glass of champagne, and said, "Don't be too sanguine, Ralph. It's no easy matter, you know, to dodge past such a fleet; but I've great confidence in you, and somehow I think you'll do it. Come, let's drink to your success!"

And, standing, we drained our glasses.

The undertaking was certainly rather a big order, and in my most extravagant dreams of distinction I had not ventured to hope of such a thing. What a glorious chance of distinguishing myself! Most of the men I knew would give their ears for such an opportunity, and here it was within my grasp at the very outset of the war.

The Admiral was a man of few words. Going to a curious little Indian safe which stood in a corner of the cabin, he took from it the precious despatches I was to risk my own and the lives of all my shipmates to deliver.

"Here, sir," he said, "are the documents. They contain most important political information, and _must_ be in the Governor's hands as _soon as possible_. In case of any accident, burn them, throw them overboard, destroy them somehow. But _don't_, for goodness' sake, let them fall into the hands of the enemy. They are more important than I dare hint at. Take them, and success go with you!"

The fog was as thick as ever when I got on deck, and getting into my boat, we cautiously crept our way through the mist, and five minutes later I was aboard.

I went at once down to my cabin and sent for my faithful first lieutenant. I made him sit down, and told him what we had to do. He did not seem to think it a very great piece of good luck.

"Quite good enough to have to chance it with the remainder," he said, "without getting sent on beastly special service jobs. Still, there's no help for it I suppose, and so we'll have to buckle to and get ready."

And as Taylor had no inducement to make him long for adventures of this kind, in the shape of a lady-love, I could hardly blame him for not taking quite so enthusiastic a view of the affair as myself.

Meanwhile, time was advancing, and at four bells (2 p.m.) we got under way. It was too foggy for the ships' companies to see much of us as we moved away, but as we noiselessly glided through the now calm and oily water with ever-increasing speed past the _Terrible_, someone noticed us, and a ringing cheer followed us as the thick grey mist rapidly swallowed us up.

And as we got settled down to our work we increased the speed, and presently were going a good 20 knots per hour--never a slow speed, and in such thick weather an infinitely perilous thing to do.

But then, as I told Taylor, "Fog or no fog, we've only got a few hours to do it in, and we're about 150 miles away. Besides, we'll have to ease down when we get close in shore, and so we'd better make the most of it while we can." Nevertheless, I knew what a fearsome thing I was doing.

Up on deck one could see but a few yards away from the ship's side. All around us lay the white impenetrable mist, wrapping up everything in its death-like folds, which shut out not only sight but sound.

Any moment the form of some ship might loom spectrally up through the fog, and hurl us to destruction; and, clinging to the rail, I constantly strained my eyes ahead, endeavouring to pierce the impenetrable mist in front of us. In this way we continued throughout the afternoon, and at four o'clock Taylor came up to relieve me on the bridge. Going below, I took a hasty meal, and bethought myself of the best plan for carrying the despatches, which I wished to keep continually on my person.

Some instinct seemed to tell me that I should not suffer injury; and while I lived I was determined that the documents should be delivered. I decided to place them in an oilskin envelope, and then to put them within my cholera belt--that indispensable adjunct to all those who are constantly exposed to quick changes of temperature. When I did eventually go on deck again it was nearly five, and to my great joy I saw that the fog was decidedly lifting. Far away on our starboard beam we could just catch a faint glimpse of Morocco's cruel-looking coast.

I went up on the bridge to Taylor. "Can you see anything?" he asked as I came up. "What's in sight, old man?" I replied somewhat anxiously, for I knew by his manner he had seen something worth looking at.

For answer he pointed dead ahead. And there, very faint and indistinct in the still somewhat dense atmosphere, we could see three cruisers, the advance guard of the French fleet.

"We must run in under the land, Taylor," I said, trembling with suppressed excitement.

"We must certainly dodge those three beggars." He nodded and gave orders for the wheel to be put round hard to port. Round came the dear little craft, beautifully (she was a regular demon for turning, performing the man[oe]uvre easily in her own length) and we headed dead for the rocky coast.

"Half-speed," I shouted, and instantly "cling-clang!" rang out the indicator bell as they put the engines down as I had ordered.

We were not observed as yet, but the fog was rapidly lifting now, and soon we should be well within sight of the French, and the greatest caution was necessary.

So for the next hour we crept slowly along, all eyes fixed on the forest of masts ahead of us. It was by this time nearly pitch dark, an unusual thing for the time of the year, which we put down to the dense fog. It had lifted from the face of the waters, but would still be hanging like a thick pall overhead.

As we advanced we could clearly see the great fleet of the enemy, lying well on our port side, only about eight miles distant, and spread out so as to cover a great extent.

We were right in under the shadow of the rocks, as close in now as I dared venture, for although our draught was very light, the coast is a most treacherous one, and any moment a sunken rock might do us irreparable harm. All at once a broad bright streak of brilliant light shot up into the dark and moonless night, followed first by one or two, and then by many others, which crossed and recrossed the horizon perpetually. The French had begun to work their searchlights!

And now commenced the real difficulty of our task. Should we venture to even cross one of those brilliant paths of light so vividly flashing all around us, we must inevitably be discovered. Speaking in whispers, hardly daring even to breathe, I cautiously guided the little vessel in and out and to and fro, so as to avoid if possible those argus eyes. But no calculation, no precaution, could be of any use to us now, and I knew not at what instant one of those lights might be directed full on us, and reveal every detail of our vessel in its pitilessly searching glare.

We were of course all ready for action, and I had given orders that all the watertight compartments were to be closed. Taylor now came up and reported everything ready, and the men assembled at their posts ready for any and every emergency. The torpedo tubes were each and all laden with their deadly freight, and the two 4·7 inch quick-firing bow and stern guns were manned; the latter under Taylor's supervision, the former under the gunner's.

I had increased our speed again, and we should soon be within hailing distance of the out-lying French cruisers, and I knew that our immunity could not last many moments more.

And sure enough, the next instant a blinding white light rested for a couple of seconds upon us, throwing every little detail up into a strong relief, and then was gone, leaving the black night blacker than ever by contrast. It was the search light of the nearest Frenchman.

"Spotted, by George!" said Taylor, vehemently. "We're done!"

"Now or never!" I shouted. "Full speed ahead!"

Like a gallant racehorse responding to its rider's whip the little craft sprang suddenly forward, and in a very few moments we were past the cruiser, who had as yet not quite determined whether she had seen us or not, out into the blackness beyond.

As I have already said, the fleet was lying well from us to port, and the cruiser who had seen us was about the only ship we had immediately to fear. But now she began to work all her search lights in our direction, and every few seconds we were disclosed relentlessly in the glare of their 25,000-candle-power lights. The attention of the other ships had by this time been drawn to us, and now several more began to dodge their lights about and around us.

"There she goes, sir," said the Quarter-master at the wheel to me the next instant, as a brilliant flash came from the bows of the French cruiser, followed by a loud and ringing report.

"Not a bad shot," said Taylor, as with a "whirrr-rrr-ooo" the projectile shrieked its way through the air high over our heads.

"Gentle hint to lie to, sir," said the Quarter-master, with an attempt at a smile.

As he spoke I could see the cruiser turning and steaming off after us, flashing a signal to her flag-ship as she did so. Then two small vessels detached themselves from the fleet and prepared to follow us also.

But we were past them all, and had a full head of steam on, and so we could reasonably hope to have a very good run for it at least.

Presently--bang! and another shot whizzed past us and lost itself in the night.

It was a shell, and we heard it explode far ahead as it plunged down into the water.

"Are the night sights all in good order?" I asked Taylor, who stood close by, with his hands in his pockets, as nonchalant as ever, smoking a cigarette.

"Everything's O.K., old man," was his reply. "I'd dearly love to give 'em a taste of our after 4·7. Don't you think we ought to, now?"

"No," said I; "I don't think we will just yet. We'll reserve that for awhile till they get within closer range. They probably have not quite made up their minds yet as to who we are!"

And now the chase grew furious.

We were rushing along for all we were worth, and our funnels were almost red-hot, vomiting sparks and flames as copiously as smoke. The roaring of our furnaces could be plainly heard on deck, and the work in the stoke-hold was enormous. The cruiser behind us was gaining slightly; but if we could manage to escape without much damage for the next hour we should be well within range of Gibraltar, and the enemy would hardly attempt to follow us any further. "Besides," said I to Taylor, "if they hear firing, surely the _Rupert_ or the _Polyphemus_ will put out to reconnoitre, and of course either will be a very valuable help."

All this time the cruiser had been firing intermittently, and we had not taken much account of the two smaller vessels, who were beginning to gain rapidly. They were torpedo-boat destroyers, and if they got much closer we should have to avow our identity by opening fire.

But suddenly a great cloud of steam burst from the hindmost one, and she began to rock violently.

"She's bust 'er b'iler, sir," said the Quarter-master. "_She_ ain't no more good, anyway. That's one less to reckon with, sir." Evidently something serious had occurred, for the boat swung round in her course, and we could see the men rushing in confusion hither and thither on her decks, while a dense cloud of steam still arose from her funnels.

But the other boat was rapidly gaining.

Leaving Taylor in charge of the bridge, I rushed along aft to the quarter deck. "Are you ready to fire?" I shouted to the captain of the gun.

"Aye, aye, sir," was the cheery response from the man, a grizzled old gunner's mate with a shaggy beard, who had seen service in every corner of the globe--a man of cast-iron nerves, with a fondness for rum and the everlasting piece of spun-yarn tied round his bare big toe.

"Get a good sight on," I said. "Aim low at that torpedo boat coming up astern, and fire when I give you the word. Put on about 1,000 yards, but be sure to aim well down, now!"

The old veteran bent low and carefully over the tiny night sight. "She's coming on beautif'ly, sir," he said. "I've got 'er fixed right amidships. Ready, sir?"

As he spoke the cruiser's search-light accidentally rested full on the torpedo boat. At the same instant a well-directed shot from her bow gun rushed by us, crashing into the woodwork of the bridge behind our backs.

"Fire!" I sang out.

A blinding flash, and the distressingly sharp report of cordite, followed immediately. It was our first shot, but it did more damage than the Frenchman, with all her firing, had been able to inflict on us. As we strained our eyes in the direction of the boat, we saw the shell burst right between her funnels.

"_Good_ shot!" I yelled in triumph.

A brilliant flare of spark and flame shot suddenly up into the night, and then came a fearful agonised pandemonium, as the poor wretches rushed up on deck, to find their frail cockleshell of a ship hit in her vitals, and going over rapidly. We could see the water full of struggling figures, and then suddenly she heeled and collapsed, and I could look no more, for the cruiser, without attempting to pick up a soul, now began to fire rapidly and continuously at us.

Taylor, in our tiny conning tower, was steering a most erratic course, which rendered hitting us a matter of some difficulty, as all the target we presented was our stern, which, only coming at intervals into the glare of the searchlight, was no easy matter to follow with a gun.

We now began to fire continuously also, but could not tell whether our shots told or not, and indeed we could hardly hope to do much damage, for the cruiser was evidently a boat of weight, and, in accordance with the French custom, would be heavily armoured round her bows.

I looked at my watch. It was past eight, and we could reasonably hope to be within sight and hearing of Gibraltar soon.

For the next fifteen minutes nothing of importance happened; but just as we sighted Tarifa Light ahead, there was a terrible crash, followed by a loud report, and I was thrown flat on my back on the deck.

They had hit us in the stern, and evidently low down.

Jumping to my feet and half stunned by the shock, I rushed down below, and attempted to discover the extent of the damage. The shell had crashed right through the after bulk-heading, and had exploded in the ward-room.

The wreckage was fearful. As far as I could tell from a hasty glance round, there was not a single thing untouched.

I had no time to observe details though, but I noticed that the foremost water-tight doors had held good, and the water, which was now coming in very fast astern, would thus be prevented from gaining on the fore part of the vessel.

But were the screws touched, or the steering-gear?

I was not able to make a direct examination, and went at once on deck again, where the firing was now fast and furious.

Another and another shot struck us, and the sight was piteous. Not a boat remained at the davits, and everywhere splinters were flying about, wounding many a poor fellow as he stood at his gun. The shell which had exploded below, too, had set the _Quickmatch_ on fire in two places, and I had to send some men down with the hose, lest the fire should spread to the deck beneath our feet.

Suddenly out of the darkness right ahead came a bright glare of light, followed by the reports of several guns.

Looking, I beheld a sight that made my heart leap for very joy.

"Hurrah, the _Polyphemus_!" I shouted. "We shall do it yet, men!"

For the famous torpedo-ram, the only ship of her kind in the world, had appeared on the scene, and a formidable opponent would our friends the enemy find her.

And as if to damp my ardour there came another shot from the cruiser, which, carrying away our foremost funnel with an awful crash, struck the bridge, killing poor Taylor instantaneously as he stood there.

"Oh! the blackguards!" I yelled despairingly, my heart down in my boots again, for the cruiser was now rapidly nearing us.

There was, unfortunately, no chance of our torpedoing her, for our stern-tube had been knocked to atoms by the shell which had come in astern. Were we to lose the day at the eleventh hour, and just as the succour we so greatly needed came in sight? It was too bitter; and, forgetful of every risk now, I shook my fist frantically at the Frenchman, a frightful rage gnawing at my heart. After coming so far and losing so many brave men, to fail at last!

But it had been ordained that I was not to fail in my mission, after all, for the _Polyphemus_ had now to be reckoned with by the Frenchman, and she was gallantly trying to draw the enemy's fire from us to herself.

We were very close in shore, and the cruiser was now trying to get in after us, so as to present one broadside to us and the other to the _Polyphemus_.

She gave her helm a turn, and was almost down upon us.

Simultaneously the _Polyphemus_, that wonderful vessel, releasing her false bottom, lightened her draught by several hundred tons, and seemed to spring bodily into the air, and was in between us.

But not before a shot from the Frenchman, fired almost point blank, struck our port upperdeck torpedo-tube.

There was a terrible deafening crash, and I was flung headlong into the water.

Then came sudden silence, the more intense for the raving turmoil that had filled my ears the moment before, and I went down and down, to an apparently interminable depth, till I began to wonder, in an impersonal sort of way, whether I were ever coming to the surface again.

But before I had realised it, I had shot up again, and my head was above water.

Heavily weighted as I was by my clothes and sea-boots, I struggled fiercely to maintain my position. But though I felt no pain, a sudden numbness had taken possession of my right leg, and vainly I attempted to swim or tread water.

Twice I had already gone under, when I found myself grasped by the coat collar, and a gruff voice shouted hoarsely in my ear, "Keep it up, sir, you're all right!"

It was Bates, the gunner's mate, who had managed, as he had so many times before, to escape unhurt, and had got hold of a spar. I grasped his arm and the piece of oar, and looked about me.

The cold had restored my scattered faculties, and it was indeed a fearful and heartrending sight that I beheld. Almost beyond conception, the terrible scene is to this day branded on my brain, never to be erased till my dying day.

There were but few souls in the water, alas, for the explosion had killed most of my men as they stood on the upperdeck, and the _Quickmatch_ was nowhere to be seen.

A couple of hundred yards away, still keeping up an aimless fire, was the Frenchman; a terrible outcry rising from her decks; the men already breaking away from the restraints of discipline and leaping headlong over the side.

The _Polyphemus_ had rammed her!

As we gazed we saw the great vessel vomiting flames and men, heel slowly over, and gradually go down into the unknown depths; a fearful hissing noise, followed by a terrible explosion, telling of the dire conflict of fire and water as her furnaces met their natural enemy. The air was thick with lurid smoke, filled with the shrieks of the dying and the fierce oaths of men who were vainly attempting to catch some passing spar, or clutching at some more favoured individual at the imminent risk of dragging both down to destruction in their frenzy.

We strained our eyes in the direction of the _Polyphemus_, and had the heartfelt satisfaction of seeing her lowering all her available boats.

And then the reaction overcame me and I fainted dead away, and would inevitably have drowned but for the strong right arm of Bates.

* * * * *

When I came to myself I was in a bunk on board the _Polyphemus_, with a group of anxious faces round me.

There was a strong odour of iodoform in the cabin, and a lavish display of lint and bandages, for which I vainly tried to account. I felt at once for the despatches, and had the satisfaction of feeling their bulky outline against my skin.

"All right now?" cheerily asked the little Welsh doctor who had been busily engaged in bringing me to life again.

"Yes, thanks," I replied, trying to sit upright in the bunk, a movement which gave me excruciating pain, and was promptly prevented by the sick bay steward and the doctor.

"Come, come!" he said, with a smile, "none of your nonsense, now. You won't be able to move for a while yet."

Then I remembered the strange numbness of my right leg when I fell into the water.

"What has happened?" I asked. "What have I done--what----"

"Well, if you insist," he said, unwillingly, "you've broken your thigh. It's nothing much, just a simple fracture," he continued, quickly. "Soon be well again, and none the worse for it. Now, don't worry; you'll probably be able to walk as well as if nothing had happened."

I lay still and groaned. This, then, was to be the end of all my vain-glorious imaginings. I began to pity myself with an exceeding pity. Instead of dramatically delivering my despatches, I was to lie on a sick bed. I was deformed, disfigured--what would Bertha think when she saw me! In spite of the doctor's assurance, I felt sure that I should go through life with a limp. A graceful figure I should make!

The Captain of the _Polyphemus_ here suddenly recalled my wandering mind.

"We shall be very glad to have an account of your adventures, Lieutenant Ralph," he said, courteously, "and how you came to be chased by that brute of a cruiser."

In as few words as possible I told them all that had occurred since the declaration of war, finally inquiring for Bates, to whom I owed my life, and had the happiness of hearing that he was safe and sound aboard.

"You have done a very plucky thing, sir," said the Captain, at the close of my recital. "You fought a splendid fight, and I am sure your country will not forget your brave and valuable services. I am sorry to say that only four of your ship's company have been recovered, and a few Frenchmen."

We were by this time nearly at Gibraltar; and the Captain, having received the despatches from me and assured me they should go at once to the Governor, left me to fall into a deep, refreshing sleep, from which I awoke calm and content. The despatches were delivered in time, though not by my hand. But their safe delivery was the chief matter.

That night, in spite of the doctor's protestations, I was taken from the ship and sent ashore, where I was received at the comfortable little Gibraltar hospital.

My thigh was indeed badly fractured, but a sound constitution, aided by the unremitting care bestowed upon me in Gibraltar, soon brought me round again, but a slight limp is always with me.

* * * * *

When my dear wife, who looks over my shoulder as I write these words, says that my infirmity is no less glorious than the Victoria Cross which rests so proudly on my breast, I feel amply repaid for anything I may have done or risked in the service of my country; and the day when I shall attain flag-rank looms larger upon the satisfactory horizon of my life.

THE SAD FATE OF MISTRESS PRUE.

Mistress Prue was gay and sweet,
And fair as maid could be;
From dainty head to twinkling feet,
A source of joy was she.

But Mistress Prue was hard to please,
And full of whims and airs;
Her beaux she'd torment, flout, and tease,
Unheeding all their prayers.

At length one day _she_ loved a swain,
And changed her ways at last;
But "Mistress Prue" she did remain,
For wooing days were past.

A GIRL'S BALLOON JOURNEY OVER LONDON.

THE STORY OF AN ADVENTURE IN THE AIR AT FORTY MILES AN HOUR.

BY GERTRUDE BACON.

A few weeks ago a telegram was put into my hands containing two words only, "Come along."

The message was short, but eminently satisfactory, for it signified that the negotiations which had been in progress for a lofty balloon ascent from the Crystal Palace had been completed.

I scanned the weather with interest, for on this occasion I was to accompany my father skywards, and with him and the aeronaut to make an ascent which should not only be my first, but should be noteworthy from the height it was hoped to attain, we being a light party and the balloon a specially large one.

A talismanic card bearing Mr. Spencer's name, and the magic words "Private ascent," gained us free and instant admission to the Palace.

On our way to the balloon enclosure we fell in with our captain, Mr. Stanley Spencer, the youngest member of that firm of distinguished aeronauts who may be said to possess almost the monopoly of the upper regions, and the right of way in the skyey realms.

He was dressed in nautical fashion, as befits the man who sails his own craft through that vastest of all oceans--the ocean of the air--and with his gold-laced cap and blue jacket looked every inch the sailor that he is. He has steered his ship all over the world, being only just returned from India and China, while he wears on his coat the gold medal that the grateful people of Cuba presented him with in the days before the war.

Mr. Spencer's genial face was wreathed in smiles. He said the day was cut out for our ascent, that everything was in readiness, that the sky was clear, and that the wind would carry us directly over London, only he wished there was not quite so much of it.

It was hard to believe that the flat, limp mass of red and yellow silk and cord netting that lay so inert and shapeless on the grass was shortly to bear us among the fleecy clouds that now flecked the heavens.

In the car we carefully stowed the cameras, the horns and tuning-forks and other acoustic instruments, the big exhausted glass bulb in which we were to bottle up a portion of the higher atmosphere for subsequent analysis, the coats and sandwiches that we might be very glad of later. The balloon was a beauty, of 40,000 odd cubic feet capacity, and had only been used twice before.

At four o'clock the patient company sitting on the grass, at a distance rigidly enforced by a stony-hearted policeman, sent a delegate to ask how much longer we should be. We could not say, but we sat and sadly regarded the swaying silk, and contemplated the ignominy of a return home. At length our captain, in whose mind feelings of prudence were plainly battling with a desire to be off, had the ring and car attached, just to see how things stood. The sand-bags all drew up together, and the balloon rose up higher into the air and began to roll, slowly and majestically, first to one side and then to the other, like a mighty pendulum.

Just at that moment came a lull in the breeze; the angry little squall-demons had whisked themselves off elsewhere; the sun came out from behind a cloud. Things looked brighter in every sense, and Captain Spencer, casting an admiring glance at his stately craft, quivering to be free, came up with a smile.

"I think we'll be off now."

There was a rustle of satisfaction among the onlookers as we sprang into the car, more especially as, the moment the sandbags were removed, the balloon became lively, and gave promise of some fun. Strong arms were holding us down, and up in the ring sat Jack, a weather-beaten old sailor, familiarly known as the "commodore," a tried and trusted servant of the Spencer family, and partner in many an adventure.

"Look here," said our captain; "the wind is stiff, and we may have a roughish descent and need help. Would it not be wiser to abandon the high ascent, part with more ballast-bags, and take up old Jack instead?"

Clearly prudence was on the captain's side, though it was with real sorrow we relinquished our pet scheme of reaching 20,000 feet. So old Jack remained in the ring, our aeronaut commenced throwing bags till we began to rise--but not far. "Hold on!" he cried to the men holding the last rope, and "Look out!" to us, as with a jarring shock the car dashed down on the grass again. Another bag, another rise, and another bump. The squall demons were coming back again, and the people were getting excited.

"Can you spare any of this?" said the captain, looking down at the instruments; "There are not many more sandbags."

So, with another pang, two cameras and other sundries were handed out.

Another bump, a swaying straining of the ropes, while the balloon seemed rapidly losing both patience and temper. One more bag out, a rush upwards, a momentary hesitation, a cheer from the spectators, "She's off! Let go!" and forthwith the tossing car was at peace and still. But the people and the trees, the water-towers and the Palace, took a sudden headlong plunge downwards, and ere I could struggle up from the bottom of the car were hundreds of feet below.

THE CAR OF THE BALLOON CONTAINS CAMERAS, ACOUSTIC INSTRUMENTS,
AND A GLASS BULB FOR BOTTLING SOME AIR.
]

From this moment until we again touched the earth the balloon never moved. Of this I can be sure, for I was in it; but a strange motion caused the earth beneath us to recede rapidly, and at the same time to move backwards; so that trees, fields, houses, gardens, streets, and rivers were rushing madly by under our gaze. Not a breeze disturbed us; not a breath came nigh us. Quickly we rose 1,000 feet, 2,000, 3,000, and very shortly we had attained our greatest altitude, almost 6,000 feet--rather over a mile--high.

And now what a glorious panorama spread itself before our delighted gaze! Above, our view was mainly confined to old Jack's boots, for the commodore maintained his position in the ring. Above him spread the gaudy red and yellow silk, with a vista of the valve through the open mouth of the balloon. The sun, now sinking towards the west, beamed hotly upon us, and directly under it was a fleecy white cloud, but unlike any cloud I had ever seen before, because we were looking at it "end on," from a height as great as its own.

But below was a prospect indescribable in its loveliness and weird in its unfamiliarity. Every house, tree, road, garden and field was outlined with startling distinctness and sharpness of detail, but of Liliputian size and in preposterous perspective.

Swiftly we sped along, bearing northwards at some forty miles an hour. Dulwich, Camberwell, Peckham Rye, Bermondsey, swept by, their parks and gardens and ever-thickening streets almost unnoticed, for now all eyes were turned on the shining river, and the great dark mass of the Metropolis we were so quickly approaching, and whose faint murmur was even now striking our ears. It was as we had foreseen--we were to cross London, and at its densest point. Fortune was favouring us indeed, for not twice in thirty ascents from the Palace does such an event occur.

And now we were actually over Southwark, and about to cross the gleaming Thames that wound so sinuously through the maze and tangle of streets, lost in haze as it crept towards the sea, and dazzling in its brilliance where it reflected the waning sunlight. Dotted about upon its surface were a fleet of the sweetest possible little toy ships--tiny models, such as children would sail in their baths at bedtime. Across it we could trace each teeming thoroughfare, Tower Bridge in particular standing out as a beautiful little miniature.

Every block and square, the great arteries of traffic and the less-trodden by-lanes, were delineated as in a huge map. There was St. Paul's looking as Sir Christopher Wren surely never dreamed of, there the great square of the Tower and the shimmering water of the Docks. Conspicuous among the wilderness of roofs eastward shone out an enclosure of little white objects, puzzling at first, but which we presently decided to be the gravestones of some large cemetery--Tower Hamlets probably.

We crossed the river between London and Tower bridges and kept our course north with just a dash of east in it; and all the while the air was full of a strange loud noise, a deep continuous hum, not so much that of bees in the limes or at swarming time, as the ceaseless roar of vast machinery, the booming drone of a mighty dynamo, suggesting sleepless activity, endless motion, and infinite strength and power. It was the voice of the toiling millions, the whirr of the engines of nations, the throb of the heart of the world.

Northward yet, and the streets thinned out and the fields and trees appeared again, and the roar gave place to an almost deathlike silence, for we were above the height to which the sounds of country life could penetrate. We seemed to cross a region of market-gardeners, and at one place all the country appeared covered with hot-houses, whose glass roofs glittered like diamonds. Anon and all the lovely plain was studded with stately mansions and rich men's country seats.

On and on over park and field and wood. Presently our balloon began dropping, and we noted that at 3,200 feet elevation the first sounds reached us, the crowing of a cock, a dog's bark, and the shrill voices of children. Above that height all had been absolute silence, except for the occasional report of a gun, which, however, sounded sharp and short, and different from what it was at lesser elevation.

Down we swooped until we could see the rabbits in a field scuttling to their holes and the ducks on a pond flapping with consternation at our approach. All the neighbourhood turned out to look at us and cheer. We hailed one farmstead and inquired our whereabouts, but we could not catch the reply, though we heard one old woman plainly protesting we were knocking the tiles off her roof with our trail rope.

For half an hour longer we floated on, over fields and hedges that gave one no impression so much as that of irregular patchwork.

We could trace the lanes and main roads, and presently we noticed what seemed to be a well marked "non-slipping" pneumatic bicycle track running through the land. There were ridiculous little white sticks beside it, and we knew it for a railway line. The sight of it began to remind us of certain considerations we would fain have forgotten. To quit these realms for earthly cares and earthly limitations, to exchange our steady car, open to the pure, unbreathed air, for a stuffy, jolting train, was a hard thing to do. But the evening was approaching, the balloon once more dropping, and quickly too, and we had but one more bag of ballast. "This looks a good place for landing, Jack," said the captain, and so it did.

A broad stretch of level fields, some grass and some with the corn just cut, no trees and not even a hedge, only a long way ahead a high road with telegraph posts, and beyond that again the railway running north. So we made ready for the end. Jack came down from the ring, the captain took the end of the valve rope ready to pull, I was placed in the centre with orders to stand with my knees bent, to hold on fast to a rope on each side, and to prepare for a big bump. Nearer and nearer the earth we swooped, and as we bore down we could perceive that the wind we had been perfectly unconscious of above, and which we fondly hoped had abated, was blowing as stiffly as ever, and sweeping over the open plain fresh and strong.

We left a young plantation behind us, just shaved a patch of growing wheat, and then hovered over a field where the corn was reaped, and the sheaves, piled in shocks, stretched in neat rows to the high road far ahead. It was the very spot.

"Now!" cried our aeronaut, as he tugged the valve rope with all his force and held it taut. Over went the anchor, and instantly the earth made a sudden violent rush upwards and hit the car with a stunning crash that shook every bone in one's body. We actually landed on a corn shock, scattering the sheaves right and left, and the great floundering balloon pulled us over flat on one side, so that for a moment the wheat ears brushed our faces as we lay, all in a heap, holding on with might and main, till in a moment we lifted again.

But then an untoward event occurred. Under ordinary circumstances, the many-pronged anchor, let fall from a height, buries itself deeply in the ground, and thus moored, after two or three rebounds, the balloon subsides. But no rain had fallen for many a day, and in that iron-baked soil the grapnel hooks could penetrate scarce half an inch. The balloon rose, plunging and straining, and in a moment the wind had caught the fast emptying silk and carried it madly forward, the useless anchor dragging vainly along the impenetrable ground, and the unfortunate car, all on its side, bumping, banging, leaping, and tearing in its wake. Along we trailed, the wind flapping and roaring in the silk, every stick in the wicker basket creaking and straining as it skipped and bounded from one corn shock to another, while its four inhabitants, bruised and breathless, gripped the sides, set their teeth, and wondered what was coming next.

We could do nothing but hold on for dear life and hope for the best, and all the while the telegraph posts and wires drew nearer and nearer.

In the end those telegraph wires proved our salvation. Only a field beyond them ran the Great Northern, and to have caught our anchor in its boundary fence and fallen on the rails, as we assuredly might have done, would have been a far from pleasant or safe proceeding. As it was, the tight wires caught the netting, so that the great silk bag fell over one side while the car remained the other, and although the dying monster struggled hard, aided by the sweeping wind, to rise again, it had not life enough, so fast its vital force was ebbing, to lift us above the obstacle.

Then, as we lay heaving and straining yet with every gust, came shouts and hurrying feet, and half a dozen lusty harvesters, panting and excited, tore down to the rescue, and brawny sunburnt arms took tight hold on the ropes, and red jovial faces peered over the side of the basket on the four storm-tossed voyagers within. And by the time we had all scrambled out on to the grass, glad to stretch our limbs and find that none were broken, the whole countryside was alive and rushing up, on foot, on horseback, on bicycles, in carts and carriages, to where the huge balloon lay prostrate in the road, blocking the way and quivering yet in its mortal throes.

All was interest and excitement--no, not all. Within ten yards of our resting place browsed placidly an apathetic donkey. When the gaudy, flapping, unknown giant fell down from the heavens at his very hoofs, this intelligent animal went on grazing. The idea that something unusual was occurring presently penetrated his asinine brain, and he raised his head and looked. Half an hour later, when the balloon was packed up and loaded on the cart that took it to the station, he raised his tail also and brayed long and loud. He was beginning to be astonished at last!

We quickly learnt that we had fallen between Ashwell and Baldock on the borders of the shires of Hertford and Cambridge, and soon we had proof of the proverbial hospitality of the Cambridgeshire folk.

One word in extenuation of my photographs taken from the balloon. Balloon pictures are very often apt to be hazy on account of the diffusion of light from the particles of matter in suspension, when viewed from above, and mine were taken late in the day on an occasion when weeks of drought had heavily laden the air with dust and impurities. The rapid motion of the balloon, moreover, forbade anything but snapshot exposures being attempted.

THE EDITOR'S ESCAPADE.

THE STORY OF A MAN AND A MANUSCRIPT.

BY ARCHIBALD EYRE.

One sometimes wonders what becomes of those meteoric young men who flash through University firmaments trailing behind them an accumulating tail of honours and other academic distinctions. Do they continue to dazzle onlookers throughout their career, or do they "fizzle out" at an early age?

If the fates had been less kind, it is conceivable that Hubert Didcott might have "fizzled out." That he did not do so may have been due to a piece of luck. While the laurels that crowned his brows were still freshly green, he met a very respectable middle-aged gentleman, who had made an enormous fortune and was turning his attention to literature.

He had recently purchased the _Didactic Weekly_ from the eminent firm of Sholman and Company, publishers, and was understood to be looking out for an editor. Someone introduced him to Hubert Didcott, and they came to terms.

While the new editor and the recent proprietor were gaining experience in lines entirely novel, the position of the paper was parlous in the extreme. The circulation sank to so low an ebb that it was only by a generous courtesy that it could be considered to have a circulation at all.

But when things were at their worst, they began to mend. Hubert Didcott settled himself firmly in his editorial chair, used the intelligence which survived his education, and, shaking himself free from academic trammels, began to grope for the heart of the public. In the end, he found it. When ten years had elapsed, the _Didactic Weekly_ had made for itself a distinct position.

One day, while Didcott sat at his desk, Mr. William Winder, M.P., the proprietor, was announced.

"Good morning, good morning," he began, with great cordiality.

Didcott responded politely.

"Things all right?"

The editor nodded. "Quite a rush for our last number," he said, thawing as he always did when alluding to a success of his beloved paper. "The Bishop of Brighton's article on 'Reunion' has made quite a stir in some circles."

"So I've heard," replied Mr. Winder. "The Prime Minister spoke to me about it. I hadn't read it. Of course," he smiled genially, "I didn't say so."

"The Prime Minister?" echoed the editor. "I wonder if----"

"I asked him," replied Mr. Winder, promptly. "But he couldn't. Too busy. Besides his public works, he's bringing out a new edition of Homer, or the Psalms, or something. He talked to me about it." He smiled again. "I hope he thought my silence betokened intelligence. It didn't."

The editor smiled. "How goes the political world?"

Mr. Winder leant back in his chair. His face assumed an expression of mysterious significance. "The New Year's Honours, I'm told----" he whispered.

Didcott nodded with intelligence; he was aware of Mr. Winder's aspirations. There was a pause while Mr. Winder indulged in silent and pleased anticipations of what the New Year might bring. Very shortly, the pleased look died away; he straightened himself.

"Oh, I say," he said, "I came to speak to you about something. I am afraid you'll think it a great nuisance."

"What is it?"

"Have you fixed on your serial for the New Year?"

"No," replied Didcott, surprised. "I want to get to Meredith's new story, but I haven't done anything yet."

There was a distinct look of worry on the old man's face.

"Didcott, my boy," he said, with an almost beseeching air, "don't be angry with me. I did what I could. I couldn't help it."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I have a daughter," Mr. Winder went on, a little brokenly. "You know that?"

"Yes, I know," replied Didcott. "But what of that? She's at school, isn't she?"

Mr. Winder shook his head. "No, she's finished. She's home for good."

"That must be very pleasant for you," said Didcott, politely.

"Very nice indeed." Mr. Winder produced his handkerchief, and mopped his brow. "I simply have to do what she tells me. You've no idea. I----" He stopped short, and looked everywhere save at the editor's face.

"Well?" Didcott leant back and smiled encouragingly. He guessed that Mr. Winder was going to confide some domestic incident to his keeping.

"She's nineteen, and quite grown up. And the way she has of getting round me! I can't resist her, the puss!" A smile of mingled vexation and pride played about the father's lips. "You see, she has no mother; so she gets her own way."

"You are quite right to let her have her own way," answered Didcott. "That's the only way to manage a woman."

Mr. Winder brightened. "You think so? You understand? I'm glad, Didcott. It makes it easier for me."

"Makes what easier?"

Mr. Winder sighed. "I do hope you won't mind." He glanced hastily at his companion and then away, and for a few moments an uneasy silence prevailed.

"You want to tell me that----" began Didcott, to help him.

"Would you mind telling someone to bring in the parcel the footman has left in the outer office?"

Slightly amused, Didcott touched the bell, and gave the needful directions. A minute later the boy brought in a bulky brown paper parcel.

When the door was closed Mr. Winder drew his chair close to Didcott's.

"It's a novel; she's written it," he whispered, eyeing his companion eagerly.

Didcott laughed. "Is that all? There's nothing in that. All girls do so sooner or later. It comes as surely as the measles. I expect you want me to read it. I will do so with pleasure."

"She wants it published," said Mr. Winder, forlornly.

"And why not? It won't cost much. And--and she needn't put her real name."

Mr. Winder sighed again. "I've promised that it shall be published. I couldn't help it----"

"And why not?"

"In the _Didactic Weekly_."

"What!" cried the editor, leaping from his chair.

"Now, don't take on, my dear fellow. I did what I could. But she has such ways, and she was so keen on it, and--and she kept worrying, and----"

"It's out of the question," said the editor, with clenched teeth. "Quite absurd."

"I'm afraid it'll have to be. I've given my word, and I can't back out."

Didcott stood frowning and biting his lips. "You must see it is impossible," he said at length.

"I do see that," said the old man, humbly, "but I don't see any way out of it. I've given my word, and I must stick to it. Now, Didcott," he went on, "I beg of you not to be angry. It may not be so _very_ bad. It may be quite good; after all, one never knows."

"Why doesn't she get it published in volume form?"

"The publishers have all declined it."

Didcott groaned. "But if you paid for the cost of production?"

"I offered that. All the good firms decline it even on those terms, and she won't go to a second-rate house. She was so cut up, and--and--hang it, she's my only child."

Didcott rose. "Very well, I'll look through it and see what it is like. We will talk over the matter again."

The old man rose and held out his hand.

"Don't be angry, my boy," he said. "I know it's a great nuisance, but--but very few people read serial stories. I daresay it will pass unnoticed. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," repeated the editor, mechanically. When Mr. Winder had gone, he took up a knife and cut the string of the bulky package. Taking out the manuscript, he began to read.

Half an hour later, he stumbled down the office stairs with the face of a demon and lips that moved without speaking. The office boy trembled as he passed.