“If I can go through a battle in the air in an airplane, I surely can ride in a captive balloon, even if the basket I am to ride in does look like a toy spaniel’s sleeping basket,” she told herself. “I am ready, sir,” she announced, stepping down. A heavy flying coat and helmet were put on, then came the harness. The latter was adjusted while Grace was standing on the ground, the major fixing her up before donning his own harness, examining it with a care that sent the cold chills up and down the spine of J. Elfreda Briggs. “Does it pinch you anywhere?” asked the major. “You know it must fit firmly.” “I think it is quite comfortable,” replied Grace. “Now what do I do?” “Climb up the ladder and get in, being careful that you do not foul the lines.” The officer stood on the ground to watch her getting in to make certain that the parachute ropes did not become tangled. Grace ran up the ladder nimbly and climbed over into the basket, which was just deep enough to leave her head and shoulders showing above its upper edge. “All set,” cried the major, going up the ladder. “Let up gently. I’ll direct you as we go as to altitude. You see, Mrs. Gray, we are connected with the truck by a telephone wire, so that the observer may be always in contact not only with his base, but also with the artillery control station. We spot in wartime, both for marks and for results. Sorry I can’t show you some spotting under actual war conditions.” “I am quite content to have you tell me about it,” laughed Grace. The major grinned, then tested the telephone, adjusted the aneroid barometer, took a final glance around, and nodded to the flight sergeant. The latter blew two short whistles, and as if for good measure bellowed “Let go!” “Better come along,” called down Grace to Elfreda who with one hand shading her eyes was gazing up at them, her face a little pale. Miss Briggs shook her head. “One balloonatic in the family is enough,” she cried, then something seemed to be drawing the earth away from Grace Harlowe, and she suddenly realized that they were going up. CHAPTER XI ROUGH GOING IN CLOUDLAND “We’re off,” the major informed her, but his reminder was unnecessary. Already J. Elfreda Briggs had shrunk to almost childish proportions and the big army truck looked like a toy express wagon. Had it been painted red the illusion would have been nearly perfect. “My, it’s windy up here!” shouted Grace. “We will be out of it soon, I think,” answered the major.