He went to the side of the car and remained for a time staring with unseeing eyes at a huge cluster of great clouds—a cluster of slowly dissolving Monte Rosas, sunlit below. His attention was arrested by a strange black spot that moved over them. It alarmed him. It was a black spot moving slowly with him far below, following him down there, indefatigably, over the cloud mountains. Why should such a thing follow him? What could it be?...
He had an inspiration. “Uv course!” he said. It was the shadow of the balloon. But he still watched it dubiously for a time.
He returned to the plans on the table.
He spent a long afternoon between his struggles to understand them and fits of meditation. He evolved a remarkable new sentence in French.
“Voici, Mossoo!—Je suis un inventeur Anglais. Mon nom est Butteridge. Beh. oo. teh. teh. eh. arr. I. deh. geh. eh. J'avais ici pour vendre le secret de le flying-machine. Comprenez? Vendre pour l'argent tout suite, l'argent en main. Comprenez? C'est le machine a jouer dans l'air. Comprenez? C'est le machine a faire l'oiseau. Comprenez? Balancer? Oui, exactement! Battir l'oiseau en fait, a son propre jeu. Je desire de vendre ceci a votre government national. Voulez vous me directer la?
“Bit rummy, I expect, from the point of view of grammar,” said Bert, “but they ought to get the hang of it all right.
“But then, if they arst me to explain the blessed thing?”
He returned in a worried way to the plans. “I don't believe it's all here!” he said....
He got more and more perplexed up there among the clouds as to what he should do with this wonderful find of his. At any moment, so far as he knew he might descend among he knew not what foreign people.
“It's the chance of my life!” he said.
It became more and more manifest to him that it wasn't. “Directly I come down they'll telegraph—put it in the papers. Butteridge'll know of it and come along—on my track.”
Butteridge would be a terrible person to be on any one's track. Bert thought of the great black moustaches, the
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