Morning broke gray and cheerless. A few flakes of snow fell. There
was every indication of a heavy storm. They were high above a
desolate and wild country now, hovering over a sparsely settled
region where they could see great forests, stretches of snow-covered
rocks, and towering mountain crags.
The snow, which had been lazily falling, suddenly ceased. Tom looked
out in surprise. A moment later there came a sound as if some giant
fingers were beating a tattoo on the roof of the main cabin.
"What's that!" cried Ned.
"Bless my umbrella! has anything happened?" demanded Mr. Damon.
"It's a hail storm!" exclaimed Tom. "We've run into a big hail
storm. Look at those frozen stones! They're as big as hens' eggs!"
On a little platform in front of the steering-house could be seen
falling immense hailstones. They played a tattoo on the wooden
planks.
"A hail storm! Bless my overshoes!" cried Mr. Damon.
"A hail storm!" echoed Mr. Parker. "I expected we would have one.
The hailstones will become even larger than this!"
"Cheerful," remarked Tom in a low voice, with an apprehensive look
at Ned.
"Is there any danger?" asked his chum.
"Danger? Plenty of it," replied the young inventor. "The frozen
particles may rip open the gas bag. "He stopped suddenly and looked
at a gage on the wall of the steering-tower--a gage that showed the
gas pressure.
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