held an awfully fascinating power for uncle and nephews.

From every side came deadened sounds which could bear but a
single interpretation: the tornado was still in rapid motion,
was still tearing and rending, crushing and battering, leaving
dire destruction and ruin to mark its advance, and these were the
sounds that recorded its ugly work.

In goodly measure revived by the compressed air, which was
regulated in flow to suit his requirements by a device of his
own, Professor Featherwit now looked around with something of his
wonted animation, heedless of his own peril for the moment, so
great was his interest in this marvellous happening.

So utterly incredible was it all that, during those first few
minutes of rallying powers, he dared not express the belief which
was shaping itself, gazing around in quest of still further
confirmation.

He took note of the windy walls about their vessel, rising upward
for many yards, irregular in shape and curvature here and there,
but retaining the general semblance of a tube with flaring top.
He peered over the edge of the basket, to draw back dizzily as he
saw naught but yeasty, boiling, seething clouds below,--a
veritable air-cushion which had served to save the pet of his
brain from utter destruction at the time of falling within--

Yes, there was no longer room for doubt,--they were actually
inside the distorted balloon, so dreaded by all residents of the
tornado belt!