The Lost City | Page 8

powers during those first few minutes.
All around them whirled and sped those maddened winds, curling and twisting, rising and falling, mixing in and out as though some unknown power might be weaving the web of destiny.
Now dull, now brilliant, never twice the same, but ever changing in colour as in shape, while stripes and zigzags of lightning played here and there with terrifying menace, those walls of wind held an awfully fascinating power for uncle and nephews.
From every side came deadened sounds which could bear but a single interpretation: the tornado was still in rapid motion, was still tearing and rending, crushing and battering, leaving dire destruction and ruin to mark its advance, and these were the sounds that recorded its ugly work.
In goodly measure revived by the compressed air, which was regulated in flow to suit his requirements by a device of his own, Professor Featherwit now looked around with something of his wonted animation, heedless of his own peril for the moment, so great was his interest in this marvellous happening.
So utterly incredible was it all that, during those first few minutes of rallying powers, he dared not express the belief which was shaping itself, gazing around in quest of still further confirmation.
He took note of the windy walls about their vessel, rising upward for many yards, irregular in shape and curvature here and there, but retaining the general semblance of a tube with flaring top. He peered over the edge of the basket, to draw back dizzily as he saw naught but yeasty, boiling, seething clouds below,--a veritable air-cushion which had served to save the pet of his brain from utter destruction at the time of falling within--
Yes, there was no longer room for doubt,--they were actually inside the distorted balloon, so dreaded by all residents of the tornado belt!
"What is it, uncle?" huskily asked Bruno, likewise rallying under that beneficial influence. "Where are we now?"
"Where I'm wishing mighty hard we wasn't, anyhow!" contributed Waldo, with something of his usual energy, although, judging from his face and eyes, the youngster had suffered more severely than either of his comrades in peril.
Professor Featherwit broke into a queerly sounding laugh, as he waved his free hand in exultation before speaking:
"Where no living being ever was before us, my lads,--riding the tornado like a--ugh!"
The air-ship gave an awkward lurch just then, and down went the little professor to thump his head heavily against one corner of the locker. Swaying drunkenly from side to side, then tossing up and down, turning in unison with those fiercely whirling clouds, the aeromotor seemed at the point of wreck and ruin.
Desperately the trio clung to the life-lines, clenching teeth upon the life-giving tubes as that terrible pressure increased so much that it seemed impossible for the human frame to longer resist.
Fortunately that ordeal did not long endure, and again relief came to those so sorely oppressed. A brief gasping, sighing, stretching as the aerostat resumed its level position, merely rocking easily within that partial vacuum, and then Waldo huskily suggested:
"Looks like the blame thing was sick at the stomach!"
No doubt this was meant for a feeble attempt at joking, but Professor Featherwit took it for earnest, and made quick reply:
"That is precisely the case, my dear lad, and I am greatly joyed to find that you are not so badly frightened but that you can assist me in taking notes of this wondrous happening. To think that we are the ones selected for--"
"I say, uncle Phaeton."
"Well, my lad?"
"If this thing is really sick at the stomach, when will it erupt? I'd give a dollar and a half to just get out o' this, science or no science, notes or no notes at all!"
"Patience, my dear boy," gravely spoke the little man of science, busily studying those eddying currents like one seeking a fairly safe method of extrication from peril. "It may come far sooner than you think, and with results more disastrous than feeble words can tell. We surely are a burden such as a tornado must be wholly unaccustomed to, and I really believe these alternations are spasmodic efforts of the cloud itself to vomit us forth; hence you were nearer right than you thought in making use of that expression."
Just then came a rush of icy air, and Bruno pantingly cried:
"I'm swelling up--like Aesop's--bullfrog!"
CHAPTER IV.
THE PROFESSOR'S LITTLE EXPERIMENT.
Again those involuntary riders of the tornado were tossed violently to and fro in their seemingly frail ship, while the balloon itself appeared threatened with instant dissolution, those eddying currents growing broken and far less regular in action, while the fierce tumult grew in sound and volume a thousandfold.
All around the air-ship now showed ugly debris, limbs and boughs and even whole trunks of giant trees being whirled upward and outward, each moment menacing the