It was midsummer; news was scarce, and New York had to be amused. There was something occult in aerial navigation that appealed to the imagination, and, like a bullfight, a balloon trip held the delightfully exciting possibilities of human sacrifice. Besides, there was always a chance that the latest airship might solve the great problem and give man dominion of the air. I was a youth then and the prospect of rough adventure thrilled me.

"The confounded old airship may not be worth a continental," said my chief, before I left New York, "but the voyage will make a good story. Be careful of yourself. If you break your neck, remember, you can't write your despatch." With this sympathetic advice in my ears, I went to Montreal.

The multitude that gathered in the lacrosse ground to see the new airship ascend was typical of Canada -- boisterous, fresh-faced, and full of the love of open-air sports -- with here and there a bearded habiton, a jaunty volunteer in uniform, or an Indian pedler. It was the same sort of crowd that in winter flings itself into the hearty excitements of skating, snowshoeing, and tobogganing.

A thousand fingers poked the varnished sides of the big gas bag, picked at the net that held it in captivity, or watched the painted canvas pipe that undulated and pulsed, like a monstrous brown serpent, as the gas streamed through it into the balloon. A few examined the odd-looking steering wheels, whose great blades, turned by an iron crank, were made to feather like oars at any point, a simple mechanical device. Strong guy-ropes prevented the tossing yellow monster from tearing itself away in the rising wind. A group of sturdy workmen held on to the car, a primitive square structure made of light iron tubes.

It was time to start. Grimley, the aeronaut, a shrewd little Yorkshireman, nimble of hand and foot, stepped into the car, and a babble of voices arose. The multitude pressed close and stared at the sky-sailor. He was a singular figure and carried with him a strange sense of mystery. When he was not a balloonist he was a tailor, dancing master, or teacher of mesmerism. His muscular, graceful little body weighed only a hundred and ten pounds, but what he lacked in inches and girth he made up in his commanding face. He had the brow of a poet -- broad, white, veined with blue -- and his military mustaches turned up sharply from a full-lipped, determined mouth. The extraordinary features of the countenance were the eyes, large, intensely black, and bold as a lion's. I had seen him hypnotize a man once, and knew the power of that glance.

As I pushed my way through the swaying, excited crowd, and reached the side of the car, I was confronted by another correspondent, who insisted upon his right to make the trip.

"The car will only hold two," said Grimley; "one of you must stay on the earth."

The crowd saw the situation, wagged its head, and roared like a storm at sea.

"Let them toss a penny!" shouted a gray-haired man who clung to a guy-rope.

"Yes! yes! toss! toss!" shrieked the crowd.

A gust of wind struck the balloon and swung it around in mighty circles. Grimley climbed like a cat into the iron concentrating ring, where the ropes connecting the car and the giant gas bag met.

"Toss a penny! toss! toss!" screamed the heaving sea of faces.

"It may be a toss for life," said the little aeronaut, fixing his great dark eyes on us; "but whatever it is, you must hurry. We're going to have a storm, and must leave the earth at once."

I drew a Canadian penny from my pocket and flipped it in the air.

"Heads!" cried my antagonist.

The crowd was suddenly silent, and parted to let the whirling coin fall on the ground.

It was tails. In a moment I was in the car, and the door was shut with a clang. Grimley fastened the end of the throttle-valve rope in the concentrating ring, dropped into the car, seized the handle of the steering crank, and shouted to his assistants to release the guy-ropes. In a moment the balloon was free, and leaped about wildly in the wind, held down only by the car.

"Let go!"

The men who had been desperately hanging on to the car leaped back. The crowd uttered a sound that might have come from the throat of a whirlwind, and surged backward and forward. It was the supreme moment.

But the balloon remained fast. The car was as immovable as Gibraltar. Something was wrong. The tragic thrill went out of the air. The heartless crowd laughed, and the romance and dash of the thing disappeared. It was one thing to summon up the soul for a wild sweep into the boundless air, and another thing to stand helplessly in the midst of that guffawing Canadian mob. It was the laughter of Niagara.

"She won't lift the flying machinery," said Grimley, with an oath. "Strip the wheels off! Lift the gearing out!"

"But my experiment!" pleaded the inventor of the airship, at the aeronaut's elbow. "You can steer where you will when you get up -- right, left, up, down."

"Strip her, quick!" commanded Grimley.

It was a scene of great beauty. The descending sun struck a million sparkles in the clear flood beneath us, and the steamboats left feathery white trails behind them. The wonderful Victoria Bridge and its stone piers looked like a three-mile caterpillar stretched from shore to shore. Beyond were the swishing Lachine Rapids, and to the left the settlement of the Cauganawauga Indians, guilty of nothing worse than birch-bark toys, deerskin moccasins, and maple sugar. The mighty landscape was filled with color. Towns, villages, woods, farms, streams, were spread out before the eye as far as the rim of the earth -- the country of the hardiest and simplest race in the Western hemisphere, peaceful, contented neighbors of the great republic.

The wind was rising and driving clouds across the sky. We could see the trees on St. Helen's Island bending in the breeze; but there was no sense of motion in the little iron car. We were going with the air and were untroubled. Grimley swung himself into the concentrating ring and crossed his legs under him, tailor fashion. There was something uncanny in the elfin figure, white face, bristling mustache, and bottomless black eyes, with the vast yellow sphere floating above him, and its great neck breathing forth evil-smelling vapor. The stillness of the place was almost unbearable.

"It's funny how people rush to see a balloon ascension," he said. "It isn't the love of science that stirs them up, for any man that isn't a blithering idiot knows that you can't steer a balloon in a strong wind any more than you can force a full-rigged ship, with all her sails set, against a hurricane. If you could get a motor powerful enough to do it, the envelope of the balloon would collapse. No; men and women are still savage enough to enjoy the sight of human beings going to their death. It's the mystery of the thing that catches them. But it isn't only aeronauts and mesmerists who profit by the mystery in their business -- doctors, preachers, poets, and all that tribe which lives on the borders of the unknown, live on mystery. There are thousands of fools looking up at us from the earth, and shuddering at terrors of their own imagination, while we sit here as safe and quiet as you please, and laugh at them. That's the way of the world. By the way" -- looking at the barometer -- "you'd better let out some ballast. We're falling." I poured out some sand from a sack. "That'll do. We have less than two hundred pounds of ballast, and we must use it sparingly, for the sun is setting, and it's hard to keep a balloon floating in the cold night air."

Grimley took an apple from his pocket and munched it slowly as he leaned back against the netting, with one hand thrown behind his head for greater comfort. The red glare of the sunset shone on the glistering curves of the balloon.

"You lead a strange life, Grimley."

The little captain of the air nodded his head, and a twinkle came into his eyes as he tossed the core of the apple away.

"In a way, yes; but, when you come to think of it, no stranger than the lives of many men who seem commonplace. There are thousands who keep themselves high in the world by feeding out money as ballast, just as I feed out sand. So long as they keep their breath to themselves, so long as they refrain from talking, they float. But the moment they open their mouths and let the emptiness out, down they come, just as a pull on that rope will release the gas through the throttle-valve and make us sink back again to the earth. Mystery's the cloak that shelters most of the humbug in the world. When I was a tailor nobody cared a tinker's damn for me; but when I became a mesmerist and a balloonist I was a person of consequence, although my life was not a tenth part as useful as when I worked at my trade. I've had an offer to lecture in the small towns on an electric belt that cures all sorts of diseases. There's mystery and money in the business, and I'm going to accept. The world likes to be tricked if it can be tickled at the same time. I'll call myself Professor Something-or-other -- you must keep a straight face when you bamboozle them; you'll find that out in time."

Grimley made the anchor-rope ready, and hung the five-pronged anchor on the railing of the car. His rapid movements and half-suppressed mutterings convinced me that he was alarmed. He peered anxiously at the earth. Nothing could be seen but miles of trees thrashing in the gale.

"Our ballast is exhausted," I said, as I threw the empty sack over.

"Cut the drag-rope to pieces and use it for ballast," said the aeronaut. "We can't land in trees. We'll be torn to pieces."

Foot by foot the drag-rope was severed and dropped over the railing. When it was all gone the balloon slowly sank again, and we could hear the rushing roar of the tempest in the murky woods. As we neared the wild treetops, the terrific speed at which we were going through the air became apparent. A thousand fierce voices seemed to call to us out of the agonized forest. And while we watched the furious storm sweeping over the land, there was not a breath of air stirring in the car, for we were travelling as fast as the gale.

"Unless we strike a clearing soon, we're lost," said Grimley, quietly, as he stooped and began to tear up the wooden flooring of the car. "We must lighten her even if we have to throw our clothes away. Everything must go overboard but the anchor-rope; that's our only salvation. My God! what a night!"

Soon we had cleared the car of every movable thing, and Grimley climbed into the concentrating ring to free the end of the rope that worked the throttle-valve in the top of the balloon. We had risen a little, but the howling of the storm in the timber still sounded fearfully through the darkness. Grimley threw his jacket and shoes away.

"So long as we go with the wind, we're safe," said the little philosopher, with a mirthless laugh. "We're like a Wall Street plunger -- if he goes on, he's ruined, if he stops, he's smashed up."

I was leaning against the side of the car and gazing down at the dark tumult, wondering vaguely why I had trusted my life to the strength of an envelope filled with gas, when, without warning, the fastening of the car door yielded to my weight, and I lurched out into the darkness. With a cry of despair I caught at the swinging door and hung trembling between heaven and earth.

Looking up I saw Grimley staring at me from his perch. His strange black eyes seemed to draw me toward him. His nostrils were spread, and his face was deathly white. The whole power of the man was in the intense look he bent upon me. He beckoned gently with one hand.

"Come! come! come!" he commanded in a low voice. "Come! come!"

He looked like a great tomcat crouching in the rigging. The eyes glowed and flashed. I felt a sudden sense of strength, and began to pull myself upward, but the oscillation of the door made me weak again. The roaring of the tempest in the woods grew louder. A flash of lightning whitened the confused sky.

"Come! come!" urged the steady voice. "It's easy. There! there! Come!"

"I tried to mesmerize you," he remarked. "Newspaper men are such sceptics that they're hard subjects, but I thought I might succeed with a young one like you. I could feel that I was helping you -- heavens! what a close escape!"

But there was no time to discuss the matter. We were nearing the earth.

"Throw your field-glass over," said Grimley, as he returned to the iron ring and seized the throttle-rope. The balloon rose slightly. We were travelling with the speed of an express train.

"There's a clearing of some sort ahead," he cried. "I'm going to let her down" -- and with a long pull on the rope he opened the throttle-valve at the top of the great gas bag.

We began to descend swiftly toward the raging billows of tree-tops, and the sounds were like the voices of wild animals -- deep, fierce, and full of menace. The tempest carried us along so fast that we seemed to be moving over a heavy, frothing sea.

"We're going to strike and drag," shouted Grimley, with a warning gesture. "Lie down and cover your face or your eyes will be put out."

I threw myself in the bottom of the car and hid my face in my arms. The next moment there was a terrific crash, as we plunged into the forest, and the iron piping of the car bent and twisted while it tore through the grinding, clashing branches -- ripping, splitting, smashing onward in the gloom, with giant arms striking blindly at us. For a moment the wind lifted us clear of the trees, and hurled us down again into the black tumult. Again we rebounded, and again we sank. The balloon quivered like a creature in pain. Each time the car went deeper into the trees, and soon it thundered against the solid trunks, and thrashed itself out of shape. There was something awful in that shapeless, shrieking, staggering riot -- and yet I remember distinctly that, as I was thrown savagely about against the iron pipes, with the scent of the wounded pines and maples in my nostrils, I was thinking of the moment when I swung to and fro on the door, with Grimley's wonderful eyes upon me, and the hand slowly beckoning me away from death. Looking up for an instant I could see the small figure tangled in the network around the ring, the throttle-rope wound around his waist, his arms tugging against the springs of the valve, and his face thrust through a mass of leaves torn off by the netting.

"Hold tight!" he yelled. "We'll be clear in a moment."

Just then we were swept into an open field, and the shattered car struck the ground heavily. The wind dragged us, lifted us, and dragged us again. We were on ploughed earth. For a moment the balloon leaned over like a tired monster, and the car stood still. Then the gale caught it and sent us flying against a loose stone fence, and we landed in another furrowed field.

"Let us jump!"

"No! no!" exclaimed Grimley, holding me back. "The first man who jumps will send the other to death, for she will go up like a flash."

"Jump together!"

We threw ourselves face downward in the car, and each time it settled itself on the ground we dragged handfuls of earth into it. Grimley managed to reach a heavy stone, and pulled it through the bars. The added weight steadied the car. We worked furiously, scraping and clutching at the damp furrows, until there were bushels of ballast in the car. The giant gas bag sank downward again. The throttle-valve rope was hauled tight and tied to the railing. Each moment the balloon grew weaker.

"I guess we're safe now," said my companion, as he ran with the end of the anchor-rope to a tree and made it fast. Then he stood for a moment, with his hands on his hips, and regarded the heaving balloon, starting from side to side at each gust of the lessening storm. His shirt sleeves were torn and there were drops of blood on his face.

"Now, my son," he said, "you know what a man must expect when he leaves his place in nature."

His eyes sparkled, and he twirled his mustaches.

"I think I'll go back to teaching dancing or mesmerism," he added, with a smile. "If that don't do, why I'll be a tailor again. That was simply hell back there. But you've got a good story to write, haven't you, and I -- well, I've got a nasty job of mending to do. I tell you, when you try to fly too high, you simply get your trousers torn."

Now came the work of emptying the balloon of its gas. The wind had suddenly died out. Millions of fireflies twinkled in the darkness. The stars shone faintly in the blue patches between the drifting clouds. The fragrance of the pines mingled with the smell of ploughed earth. On all sides rose the black woods, the tops still trembling. Thousands of frogs piped shrilly in the summer air. Grimley hauled on the netting until he brought the top of the panting balloon to the ground, and holding the shutters of the valve open, he bade me pull down the net on the opposite side, to force the gas out more quickly. As I moved around the huge shape that lay throbbing and swelling in the darkness, I could hear my companion's voice directing me. Gradually the sound grew feebler, and presently it ceased. There was something in the sudden silence that frightened me, and I ran to the other side to find Grimley lying face downward in a furrow, his arms under his body, and a stream of gas pouring about him from the balloon. He had swallowed the fumes and was unconscious, perhaps dead.

Dragging him away from the fluttering mouth of the balloon, I shook him, beat him, and chafed his hands. To the day of his death Grimley never knew what caused those bruises on his body. Gradually consciousness returned. He rose to his feet and fell. Again he stood up, staggering and reeling like a drunken man. I had fractured my right arm during the race through the tree-tops, and the pain became almost intolerable. I shouted for help, and the woods echoed back my voice.

Where there was ploughed ground there must be a house; but the twinkling myriads of fireflies defeated my search for a light in the distance. With my left arm around Grimley's waist, we found a fence at the edge of the field and followed it. After a while we could see a steady yellow light. We waded through a swamp straight toward it. The chill of the water revived Grimley, and we pushed forward vigorously. Finally we saw a little white farmhouse, a yellow light shining through the windows. Then we reached a rough road. We raised our voices. The light was suddenly extinguished.

There was a stir in the house, and a match was struck. Through the glass panes in the door we could see an old man with a bushy gray beard, a white gown reaching to his knees, a pointed red night-cap on his head. He lit a candle, took a shotgun from the wall, and came to the door with a catlike tread and vigilant eyes. He was a French Canadian farmer, prepared to defend his home against night intruders.

One glance at our bleeding faces and torn clothes satisfied him, and he threw the door open. We explained the situation, and he made us a rough sleeping place on the floor. Then he blew the light out, and went back to his wife in the next room.

As he got into bed we could hear him explaining the matter in French.

"Two fools, heh! One fool wanted to fly like a bird, heh! and the other fool went to write about it, heh! Thank God and our Holy Lady I'm not a fool, and I'll make them pay well for interfering with my field, heh! Balloon, heh! Bah! Pish!"

A rasping snore followed.