even better,” wisecracked the boy from Kentucky. “Then if you don’t feel like dropping off, you can just cut the rope and go for a balloon ride.”

“I’m in favor of a balloon ride right now,” said his pal.

A latticework of ropes formed a wall about the platform. Over this they climbed. Then, slowly, majestically the balloon rose skyward.

Once more—“‘Sailing, sailing,’” rang out on the air.

“Old Kentucky Home” was a little too much this time. It expired in the middle of the second verse.

“Pack Up Your Troubles” went very well and the “Man on the Flying Trapeze” was as popular as ever.

One big fellow they called Samson sat hunched up in a corner, not singing and saying nothing.

“What’s the matter? Scared?” Sally asked.

“Thunder, no!” he exploded. “Sleepy, that’s all. What’s a little parachute jump? If you’d grown up on a cattle ranch with the big bulls chasin’ you and the lonesome coyotes callin’, you wouldn’t mind. I fell off a mountain once and no parachute stopped me, just a pine tree.”

“I’m scared,” Barbara whispered. Sally made no reply. Truth was, her stomach was pumping in a strange way. She saw the boy from Kentucky gulp twice. That didn’t help any.

“We’re about there,” the instructor announced. “If your stomachs don’t feel good, forget it. That’s the way mine feels right now, and I’ve jumped three hundred times.

“Now remember,” he added, “when you slide off, keep looking up. That way your chin doesn’t hook on the parachute straps.

“Now,” he said in a strong, clear voice, “we’re here. See that green light? That’s the signal. Don’t be nervous. Your parachutes have been properly rigged. I watched it done. Don’t forget, I’ll be right behind you.”

Before they went up, they had been given numbers. Barbara’s number was seven, Sally’s eight. That meant that, except for the instructor, they would be last. Sally did not know whether this was good or bad. For Barbara to go first would be terrible. But would watching the others disappear wear away her slender thread of courage? She could only hope that it would not.

“Action stations,” the instructor snapped. Number one, the big fellow raised on a cattle ranch, took his place, 

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