Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 2).djvu/489



P in a balloon, boys!" gaily snorts the band; "Yah, ber-loon!" howls the street-boy; and every man cricks his neck till his hat falls off behind when a balloon starts from a public ground; and, long after the aëronauts are floating in the silent softness above, and the bandsmen have begun another tune, the cricking of necks still goes on, and for miles below the track of the big silk bag people rush out of door and pop heads out of window, and stare till the diminishing brown ball vanishes in the clouds or becomes hidden behind tall buildings; whereupon necks are straightened, and things proceed as usual. Probably no single man, woman, or child who thus has stared at a balloon within the hundred years or so in which balloons have existed, but has longed to experience, at any rate for a little while, the sensation of riding on the air and gazing at the great world below; but most haven't made the experiment, because balloons are wayward birds, and leave no man a will of his own as to the route—not to speak of dropping into the sea and bursting at an awkward moment. These are the reflections of those below, who let "I dare not" wait upon "I would," but those who know much of the matter know that the proportion of accidents to ascents is a very small one indeed, and little to be regarded in considering an ordinary trip on a fine day—such a trip, for instance, as has been again and again performed of late in Mr. Percival Spencer's balloon, "City of York," starting from the grounds of the Naval Exhibition.

All this notwithstanding, there still remain those who will not easily be persuaded to practical "balloonacy"—as somebody calls it—and for the benefit of such we proceed to make an ascent in Mr. Spencer's balloon, carrying, in deputy for their eyes, an instantaneous "Kodak' camera.

Slowly and tediously, in the eyes of the impatient passengers, the gas swells the great silk bag, which sways and wobbles the more as it fills. When at last the proper degree of rotundity is arrived at, the ring is fixed in its proper place, and the car is connected to the ring. We have half a ton of ballast in bags of fifty pounds each, and a basket full of lighter ballast—no mere uninteresting, wasteful sand with which to sprinkle eyes and heads below, but neat little circulars, conveying information about a particular kind of whisky to thirsty souls who stare upward. We have also a long rope with a grapnel of great spikiness, with which to claw hold of the sinful world at such time as it may seem desirable to alight upon it.

These things being satisfactory, we get into the car with as much dignity as possible, in view of the popular admiration which surrounds us. Mr. Spencer, however, climbs up on to the ring, and this proceeding attracting to him more than his due share of public notice, we feel resentful, until we reflect that, after all, the car seats are a good deal the safer places. Then a rope is slipped, and—the grounds of the