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These are no business of ours, and one remarks with regret that Bert read them. When he had read them he remarked, "Gollys!" in an awestricken tone, and then, after a long interval, "I wonder if that was her? "Lord!" He mused for a time. He resumed his exploration of the Butteridge interior.
He did think that as this uncontrollable thing had thus rushed up the sky with him it might presently rush down again, but this consideration did not trouble him very much. Essentially his state was wonder. There is no fear nor trouble in balloons until they descend. "Gollys!" he said at last, feeling a need for talking; "it's better than a motor-bike." "It's all right!"
Then he vanished, and Bert was lying back on a couch in the corner with a pillow under his head and the door of the cabin shut upon him. He was alone. Everybody had hurried out again astonishingly. "Gollys!" said Bert. "What next?" He stared about him at the room. "Butteridge! Shall I try to keep it up, or shan't I?" The room he was in puzzled him. "'Tisn't a prison and 'tisn't a norfis?"
There was a crowd of excited people about him, big men mostly in tight uniforms. Everybody was talking, and several were shouting, in German; he knew that because they splashed and aspirated sounds like startled kittens. Only one phrase, repeated again and again could he recognize the name of "Herr Booteraidge." "Gollys!" said Bert. "They've spotted it."
Kugelballons. Greek to me. "But he was trying to sell his blessed secret abroad. That's all right. No Greek about that! Gollys! Here IS the secret!" He tumbled off the seat, opened the locker, and had the portfolio open before him on the folding-table. It was full of drawings done in the peculiar flat style and conventional colours engineers adopt.
"So long as it isn't jumping...." The old lady grasped the parapet above, and there was a moment of intense struggle. "Urup!" said Mr. Polly. "Hold on! Gollys! where's she gone to?..." Then an ill-mended, wavering, yet very reassuring spring side boot appeared for an instant. "Thought perhaps there wasn't any roof there!" he explained, scrambling up over the parapet beside her.
The familiar style of my address touched a sympathetic chord in the bosom of the "darkie," and a smile of satisfaction gleamed upon his features as he made answer. Of course he was not asleep. But my idle question was only meant as the prelude to further discourse. "Ah, Gollys! it be massa Edward. Uncle Sam know'd you, massa Edward. You good to brack folk. Wat can do uncle Sam for massa?"
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