There he was, astride the sandbag and holding on to the rope for dear life.  A puff of wind heeled the balloon slightly, and he swung out into space for ten or a dozen feet, and back again, fetching up against the tight canvas with a thud which even shook me, thirty feet or more beneath.  I thought to see him dashed loose, but he clung on and whimpered.  They told me afterward, how, at the moment they were casting off the balloon, the little fellow had torn away from his sisters, ducked under the rope, and deliberately jumped astride the sandbag.  It has always been a wonder to me that he was not jerked off in the first rush.

Well, I felt sick all over as I looked at him there, and I understood why the balloon had taken longer to right itself, and why George had called after me to ride her down.  Should I cut loose with the parachute, the bag would at once turn upside down, empty itself, and begin its swift descent.  The only hope lay in my riding her down and in the boy holding on.  There was no possible way for me to reach him.  No man could climb the slim, closed parachute; and even if a man could, and made the mouth of the balloon, what could he do?  Straight out, and fifteen feet away, trailed the boy on his ticklish perch, and those fifteen feet were empty space.

I thought far more quickly than it takes to tell all this, and realized on the instant that the boy’s attention must be called away from his terrible danger.  Exercising all the self-control I possessed, and striving to make myself very calm, I said cheerily: 

“Hello, up there, who are you!”

He looked down at me, choking back his tears and brightening up, but just then the balloon ran into a cross-current, turned half around and lay over.  This set him swinging back and forth, and he fetched the canvas another bump.  Then he began to cry again.

“Isn’t it great?” I asked heartily, as though it was the most enjoyable thing in the world; and, without waiting for him to answer:  “What’s your name?”

“Tommy Dermott,” he answered.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Tommy Dermott,” I went on.  “But I’d like to know who said you could ride up with me?”

He laughed and said he just thought he’d ride up for the fun of it.  And so we went on, I sick with fear for him, and cudgeling my brains to keep up the conversation.  I knew that it was all I could do, and that his life depended upon my ability to keep his mind off his danger.  I pointed out to him the great panorama spreading away to the horizon and four thousand feet beneath us.  There lay San Francisco Bay like a great placid lake, the haze of smoke over the city, the Golden Gate, the ocean fog-rim beyond, and Mount Tamalpais over all, clear-cut and sharp against the sky.  Directly below us I could see a buggy, apparently crawling, but I knew from experience that the men in it were lashing the horses on our trail.

But he grew tired of looking around, and I could see he was beginning to get frightened.