But his shrill cry was whirled away in the tumult of rushing air that enveloped them, and if the goblin heard, which is doubtful, he paid no attention to his companion’s frantic plea. Then of a sudden the balloon stopped with a smart jerk and began to whirl round and round dizzily. Fitz Mee’s fat face went white as paper, and he let out a cry of alarm and dismay. “What’s the matter, Fitz?” Bob bawled, staggering to his comrade’s side and shouting in his ear. “What’s the matter?” “The lightning has magnetized the selector!” the goblin bellowed. “Look at the needle—pointing right back toward the storm! We’re drifting right back into it! There is nothing now to prevent it!” It was too true! Immediately they were engulfed—overwhelmed in the maelstrom of cloud and wind and rain. They could neither see nor hear for the fury of the elements. The balloon spun round and round like a top; the light car jerked and swayed and shot this way and that with lightning-like and awful suddenness. One of the small ropes supporting it broke and hung dangling from the side. Another parted and the car sagged dangerously. A frightful lurch and Fitz Mee was flung upon the locker, the breath knocked out of him; another lurch, and, with a despairing scream that sounded above the deafening tumult of the tornado, he rolled overboard and disappeared. Bob threw himself into the bottom of the car, his eyes tight shut, his palms over his ears, and lay there groaning and moaning. His comrade was gone and he gave himself up for lost. Oh, how he wished he was safe at home! But in the midst of the tumultuous storm and his tumultuous thoughts a bright idea suddenly came to him. He started, he sprang to his feet and was flung flat again. Then, shaking his head and gritting his chattering teeth, he wriggled over to the air-tank and turned the cock. The hiss of the escaping air was music to him. Little by little the buffeted balloon rose, and soon it floated serenely above the zone of the warring winds and clouds. Bob was saved! A little while he lay upon the floor of the car, looking at the clear sky overhead and wondering what he was to do. Then he thought of his lost companion, and murmured feelingly: “Poor old Fitz! Poor old Spasms!” As if in answer to his pitying words, he heard a voice calling faintly but snappishly: “Bob, you rascal! Don’t you dare to call me Spasms!” Electrified, the boy sprang to his feet and looked all around. “Fitz!” he ejaculated. “But where can he be?” Then in superstitious fear: “He’s dead; it must be his ghost!” “Ghost nothing!” came the voice again, a little louder, more vigorous. “Bob, you’re a fool!” “Is—is that you, Fitz?” the boy faltered in reply. “Of course, dunce!” “Well, where are you?” “Right down here, dummy!” Bob flew to the side of the car, hunkered upon the locker and peered over. There, a few feet down, was Fitz Mee hanging to one of the broken ropes.