"Well, if they did, it's going to be mighty tough for you and me, that's all I've got to say about it."

Upon opening the door to the cabin of the balloon, after catching the gleam of the supposed domes of the City of Gold, Dave Tower found, to his great relief, that they had dropped to a considerably lower level than that reached by them many hours before. He was able to stand exposure to this outer air.

He began at once to search for cords which would allow gas to escape from the balloon.

"Should be a valve-cord and a rip-cord somewhere," he muttered to himself, "but you can never tell what these Orientals are going to do about such things."

As he gazed away toward the north, he was sure he caught sight of dark purple patches between the white.

"Might just be shadows and might be pools of salt water between the ice-floes. If we land on the ocean, good night!"

Hurriedly he searched the rigging for dangling cords. He found none. If there had been any, they had been thrown up and tangled above by the tossing of the balloon.

Dave stared dizzily upward to where the giant sausage drifted silently on.

It was a sheer fifty feet. To reach this there was but one means, a slender ladder of rope. Could he do it? Could he climb to the balloon and slit it before they reached the ocean?

It was their only chance. If the City of Gold was not a complete illusion; if human beings lived there at all, they might hope for food and shelter.

There were chemicals in the cabin for re-inflating the balloon. A fair wind, or the discovery of the method of operating that Oriental engine, might insure them a safe voyage home. But once they were out over the ocean--his heart went sick at the thought of it.

Gripping the rounds of the ladder, he began to climb. It was a perilous task. Now with a sinking sensation he felt the ladder apparently drop from beneath him. The balloon had struck a pocket of air. And now he felt himself lifted straight up a fleeting hundred feet.

Holding his breath, he waited. Then, when the motion was stable, he began to climb again. He had covered two-thirds of the distance, was staring up at the bulk that now seemed almost upon his very head, when, with a little cry, he felt his foot crash through a rotten strand. It was a second of dreadful suspense. Madly he grasped the rope sides of the ladder. His left hand slipped, but his right held firm. There, for a fraction of time that seemed an eternity, supported by only one hand, he hung out over thousands of feet of airy s.p.a.ce.

His left hand groped for the ropes which eluded his grasp. He gripped and missed, gripped and missed. Then he caught it and held on. He was holding firmly now with both hands. But how his arms ached! With his feet he began kicking for the ladder, which, swinging and bagging in the wind, seemed as elusive as a cobweb. At last, when strength was leaving him, he doubled up his knees and struck out with both feet. They fell upon something and stuck there. They had found a round of the ladder. Hugging the ropes, he panted for breath, then slowly worked himself to a more natural position.

"Huh!" he breathed at last. "Huh! Gee! That makes a fellow dizzy!"

He had climbed ten steps further when a cry of joy escaped his lips:

"The valve-cord!"

It was true. By his side dangled a small rope which reached to the balloon.

Gripping this he gave it a quick pull and was rewarded at once by the hiss of escaping gas.

"Good!" he muttered to himself, as he prepared for his downward climb.

"Trust an Oriental to make things hard. Suppose they thought if they had it any closer to the car the children might raise the d.i.c.kens by playing with it."

He swung there relaxed. They were dropping. He could tell that plainly enough. Now he could distinguish little lines of hills, now catch the course of a river, now detect the rows of brown willows that lined its banks.

He looked for the gleam of the City of Gold. There was none. The sun had evidently climbed too high for that.

His eyes roamed to the north. Then his lips uttered a cry:

"The ocean! We can't escape it!"

CHAPTER XII

THE RUSSIAN DAGGER

Johnny Thompson, with his interpreter by his side, found himself in the camp of the Mongols. It was a vast tented city, a moving city of traders.

Down its snow-trod streets drifted yellow people of all descriptions. Men, women and children moved past him. Some were young, some very old. All appeared crafty and capable of treachery.

"It was against these people that the Chinese built their great wall,"

said Johnny thoughtfully. "I don't wonder."

"When do we see his highness, the great high chief who deals in cattle?"

His interpreter smiled. "I have just come from there. We may go to see him now."

Johnny twisted one shoulder as if adjusting a heavy burden, then turned to follow the interpreter.

He did not like the looks of things; he longed to be safely back in Vladivostok with Mazie. There were times like this when he wished he had not taken it upon himself to play the fairy G.o.dfather to Russia's starving hosts. But since he had undertaken the task, however difficult it might prove, he must carry on.

He soon found himself sitting cross-legged on a floor so deeply imbedded in soft, yielding skins that he sank half out of sight beneath them.

Before him, also reposing in this sea of softness, was a Mongol of unusual size, whose face was long and solemn. He puffed incessantly at a long-stemmed Russian pipe.

Forming the third corner of the triangle, was the little interpreter.

The two members of the yellow race conversed in low tones for some time.

At last the interpreter turned to Johnny:

"I have told him that you want to buy cattle, much cattle. He say, how much you want to pay? How you want to pay? How much you want to buy?"

"You tell him that I saw six of his cattle out here just now. They are very poor. But we will take them--maybe. Ask him how much?"

"He say, have you got gold?"

"You say," grinned Johnny, "that we have got gold. We don't need a b.u.t.ton-hook to b.u.t.ton up our purse, but we've got gold. We pay gold. How much?"

The interpreter puckered up his brow and conveyed the message. The Mongol mumbled an answer.

"He say, how much you want pay?"

"Tell him for six cattle I pay one pound gold. All same."

He drew from his pocket a small leather sack, and unlacing the strings held it open before the Mongol.

The crafty eyes of the trader half closed at sight of the glistening treasure. His greedy fingers ran through it again and again. Then he grunted.

"He say," droned the interpreter, "how much cattle you want to buy?"

"Maybe three hundred," stated Johnny casually.