“There’s nothing we _can_ do, Bob. The feathers are escaping—one now and then; and, little by little, the balloon will lose its buoyancy and sink into the sea. We’re lost!” “Look here, Fitz,” Bob cried sharply. “Surely you’re not going to give up that way. I didn’t think it of you. There must be something we can do to save ourselves.” The goblin dropped his chin upon his breast and, rolling his head, muttered: “Nothing!” “But,” the lad persisted, “we _must_ do something. There’s a little air still left in the tank, and when we sink too low we can let that out, and rise again. If we sail as fast as we can, can’t we cross the ocean before we drop into it?” Fitz Mee leaped to his feet like one electrified. “Thank you, Bob—thank you!” he cried, grasping his companion’s hand. “You’ve given me hope. We’ll try your project; and if we lose, we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we died trying!” And he set his jaws with a resolute snap. “I can’t see where there’ll be much satisfaction in that for us—after we’re dead,” the lad muttered under his breath. The goblin hurried to the selector, and gradually turned the thumb-screw until the machine was wide open—the current was all on. The balloon instantly responded, and began to fly through the air at a speed little short of miraculous; its two occupants had to throw themselves prostrate and cling to the locker for safety. The still summer air appeared to be blowing a hurricane; the placid, heaving ocean appeared to be racing toward the west, a foaming, tossing torrent. One by one, a few each minute, the feathers escaped through the rent in the striped bag; and foot by foot, very slowly and very surely, the aërial vehicle yielded to the overmastering power of gravitation. On, on and on they sped, reeling off miles as a watch ticks off seconds. Neither the boy nor the goblin found anything to say. Both fully realized that they were running a race with death, and the knowledge awed them to silence. The noon hour came, and still they were flying like mad, due east. Fitz cautiously lifted his head, put the binocular to his eyes, and looked away toward the south. “There’s the Azores,” he said, shouting in order to make himself heard, his tone expressing relief and satisfaction. “The Azores?” Bob bellowed in reply. “Yes—the islands.” “Oh!” “Yes; we’re making good time.” “Well, hadn’t we better stop there?” “No.” “We’re only a few hundred feet above the water.” The goblin shook his big head in a decided negative. “Why not?” the boy insisted. “I’m afraid to stop there.” “Afraid?” “Yes; I’m afraid there’s no geese on those islands.” “Geese?” “Yes, we’ve got to have goose feathers to refill our balloon bag.” “Oh, I see! Well, what’re you going to try to do, Fitz?” “Going to try to make the coast of Portugal. We’ll find geese there.” “You’re sure?” “Yes; Portuguese.” And Fitz Mee laughed at his own pun until his fat face became purple and his breath came and went in wheezing gasps.