Late that evening Conway--the altitude-record holder of the world--and Kisner and Welkfurn sat before a roaring fire in the club. The balloonist was slightly pale, and was weakened from exposure. He should have been in bed recuperating, but his excitement had not waned, and he was not sleepy. From time to time he sucked deep breaths of air hungrily, held them in his lungs, and let them go. “Can’t explain it all,” he said. “Can’t see how it happened.” “What’s the last thing you remember?” Kisner asked. “That clock! I saw three entries on my log, all the same! It woke me up a little, scared me. After that I don’t recall what happened. Must have been out on my feet; don’t recall a thing. “How I pulled the rip-cord of the balloon I can’t see. When I came to, we were coming down like a brick--she hadn’t parachuted normally at all. I saw the cloth of the bag rolled up in a ball in the top of the netting, just enough to slow us up a little. By the time I got my mind working, we must have been down low--I didn’t see the altimeter. Just remember thinking: ‘Big boy, you gotta jump!’ Had a hard time getting out, too; just did make it. Kept thinking, ‘Must be awful near the ground. Hurry! Hurry!’ Well, you saw me come over the side.” “Good thing she _didn’t_ parachute just right up there,” Kisner pointed out. “Your oxygen tanks were empty--if you hadn’t come down fast, you’d have died before the balloon got down where the air was dense enough that you could breathe!” He puzzled the matter a moment, shook his head. “Don’t see how you did it, Con.” “Well see what I put on the log when I was up there,” Conway said tiredly. “Say, Welk, you run over and get it--get the log. We’ll have a look at it.” Welkfurn nodded and arose, pulled on his overcoat. He started toward the door, and Conway called after him, grinning: “Don’t be gone long, Welk; don’t get to talking on the way!” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March, 1929 issue of _Blue Book_ magazine.]