He was, it appeared, an amateur
of the balloon, and accustomed to great heights. When I handed the
machine over to him, with the engine throttled down so that he might
try rolling practice on the ground, he waited until he was out of our
reach, whipped the motor into its full power, heaved himself into the
air, and flew back the whole length of his grounds--alighting gently
as a falling leaf.
"It seems pretty simple," he said, as he swung himself out of the
nacelle. "I do not think I need detain you, Monsieur Lacroix, if your
assistant Georges will be good enough to consider himself my guest,
and keep the motor running."
It was in vain that I besought him to have patience. He replied only
that his time was limited, and that he had given the subject careful
study in theory.
And with that assurance I had to depart, little content. First,
however, I warned him of one or two pitfalls--as, for instance,
that he must never stop his engine in an emergency, as one does
instinctively in an auto, because the greater the danger the more need
he would have of motive power to get him out of it. Also, I told him
not to fly above trees or water, where the currents would suck him
downward, but to steer over the darkest patches of land, where the
heat of the sun is absorbed, and the air in consequence rises.
In what state of emotion I was maintained by the letters of Georges
during the ensuing fortnight, I will make you judge.
"_A moi_!" he writes to me in the first week.
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