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Byfield leaves us to expatiate in realms untrodden by the foot of man "'The feathered tribes on pinions cleave the air; Not so the mackerel, and, still less, the bear. But Byfield does it Byfield in his Monster Foolardi. But he'll come back oh, never doubt he'll come back! and begin the dam business over again. Tha's the law 'gravity 'cording to Byfield." Mr.
I paused, took breath, and shook a finger at him: "Now just you listen to me, Mr. Byfield. Pull that string, and a sadly discredited aëronaut descends upon the least charitable of worlds. Why, sir, in any case your game in Edinburgh is up. The public is dog-tired of you and your ascensions, as any observant child in to-day's crowd could have told you.
To tell you the truth, my wife believes me to be brushing off the cobwebs in the Kyles of Bute." "Are there any cobwebs in the Kyles of Bute?" asked Dalmahoy, in a tone unnaturally calm. "A figure of speech, sir as one might say, holiday-keeping there. I paid Mr. Byfield five pounds in advance. I have his receipt.
Dalmahoy did not carry one. We searched the still prostrate Sheepshanks: his had stopped at ten minutes to four. Byfield replaced it and underlined his disgust with a kick. "A nice lot!" he ejaculated. "I owe you my thanks, Mr. Ducie, all the same. It was touch and go with us, and my head's none the better for it." "But I say," expostulated Dalmahoy. "France! This is getting past a joke."
"Sheepshanks 'nmanageable; can't carry his liquor like a gentleman: thought it funny 'pitch out ballast. Byfield lost his temper: worst thing in the world. One thing I pride myself, 'menable to reason. No holding Sheepshanks: Byfield got him down; too late; faint both of us. Sheepshanks wants ring for 'shistance: pulls string: breaks. When string breaks Lunardi won't fall tha's the devil of it."
"Very true, Byfield; you are only doing your duty. Will you take a glass of grog?" "If you please," replied Mr Byfield, taking off his hat, "Your health, gentlemen." "Thank you," replied the midshipmen. "Tank you, SIR," replied also Billy Pitt. "Well, Billy. What's the last word you read in your dictionary?" "Last word? Let me see Oh! commission, sar. You know dat word?" "Commission!
Byfield, a word in your private ear, if you will." "As you please," said he, dropping the valve-string. We leaned together over the breastwork of the car. "If I mistake not," I said, speaking low, "the name was Champdivers." He nodded. "The gentleman who raised that foolish but infernally risky cry was my own cousin, the Viscount de Saint-Yves. I give you my word of honour to that."
"Looks like it. Which, I wonder?" "The English Channel, man." "I say are you sure?" "Eh?" exclaimed Byfield, waking up and coming forward with a stagger. "The English Channel." "The French fiddlestick," said he with equal promptness. "O, have it as you please!" I retorted. It was not worth arguing with the man. "What is the hour?" I told him that my watch had run down. His had done the same.
He was staring past my shoulder, and on the instant I was aware of a voice not the aëronaut's speaking behind me, and, as it were, out of the clouds "I tak' ye to witness, Mister Byfield " Consider, if you please. For six days I had been oscillating within a pretty complete circumference of alarms.
"So you are really beginning to discover that, are you?" Byfield stood, holding by a rope, and studied the darkness ahead. Beside him I hugged my convictions hour after hour, it seemed; and still the dawn did not come. He turned at length. "I see a coast line to the south of us. This will be the Bristol Channel: and the balloon is sinking. Pitch out some ballast if these idiots have left any."
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