harder, for the speed of the craft, added to the velocity of the falling chunks of hail, made them strike on the surface of the ship with greater violence.
Tom was anxiously watching the barograph, to note their height. The Red Cloud was now about two and a half miles high, and slowly mounting upward. The gas machine was working to its fullest capacity, and the fact that they did not rise more quickly told Tom, more plainly than words could have done, that there were several additonal leaks in the gas-bag.
"I'll take her up another thousand feet," he announced grimly. "Then, if we're not above the storm it will be useless to go higher."
"Why?" asked Ned, who had come back to stand beside his chum.
"Because we can't possibly get above the storm without tearing the ship to pieces. I had rather descend."
"But won't that be just as bad?"
"Not necessarily. There are often storms in the upper regions which do not get down to the surface of the earth, snow and hail storms particularly. Hail, you know, is supposed to be formed by drops of rain being hurled up and down in a sort of circular, spiral motion through alternate strata of air—first freezing and then
