Ferguson knew it through the recitals
of his predecessors. They had suffered a thousand privations
and been exposed to a thousand dangers in the midst
of these barbarous negro tribes. It was this fatal climate
that had devoured most of the companions of Mungo Park.
Ferguson, therefore, was more than ever decided not to
set foot in this inhospitable region.
But he had not enjoyed one moment of repose. The
Victoria was descending very perceptibly, so much so
that he had to throw overboard a number more of useless
articles, especially when there was a mountain-top to pass.
Things went on thus for more than one hundred and
twenty miles; they were worn out with ascending and
falling again; the balloon, like another rock of Sisyphus,
kept continually sinking back toward the ground. The
rotundity of the covering, which was now but little inflated,
was collapsing already. It assumed an elongated shape,
and the wind hollowed large cavities in the silken surface.
Kennedy could not help observing this.
"Is there a crack or a tear in the balloon?" he asked.
"No, but the gutta percha has evidently softened or
melted in the heat, and the hydrogen is escaping through
the silk."
"How can we prevent that?"
"It is impossible.
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