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The Lost City

by Jos. E. Badger · English · Gutenberg #783 · 354,626 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lost City

Author: Jos. E. Badger


        
Release date: January 1, 1997 [eBook #783]
                Most recently updated: March 14, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/783

Credits: Produced by Charles Keller, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST CITY ***




Produced by Charles Keller





THE LOST CITY

By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.



CONTENTS.

     CHAPTER
     I.      NATURE IN TRAVAIL
     II.     PROFESSOR FEATHERWIT TAKING NOTES
     III.    RIDING THE TORNADO
     IV.     THE PROFESSOR'S LITTLE EXPERIMENT
     V.      THE PROFESSOR'S UNKNOWN LAND
     VI.     A BRACE OF UNWELCOME VISITORS
     VII.    THE PROFESSOR'S GREAT ANTICIPATIONS
     VIII.   A DUEL TO THE DEATH
     IX.     GRAPPLING A QUEER FISH
     X.      RESCUED AND RESCUERS
     XI.     ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR THE PROFESSOR
     XII.    THE STORY OF A BROKEN LIFE
     XIII.   THE LOST CITY OF THE AZTECS
     XIV.    A MARVELLOUS VISION
     XV.     ASTOUNDING, YET TRUE
     XVI.    CAN IT BE TRUE?
     XVII.   AN ENIGMA FOR THE BROTHERS
     XVIII.  SOMETHING LIKE A WHITE ELEPHANT
     XIX.    THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN GOD
     XX.     THE PROFESSOR AND THE AZTEC
     XXI.    DISCUSSING WAYS AND MEANS
     XXII.   A DARING UNDERTAKING
     XXIII.  A FLIGHT UNDERGROUND
     XXIV.   THE SUN CHILDREN'S PERIL
     XXV.    WALDO GOES FISHING
     XXVI.   DOWN AMONG THE DEAD
     XXVII.  PENETRATING GRIM SECRETS
     XXVIII. BROUGHT BEFORE THE GODS
     XXIX.   BENEATH THE SACRIFICIAL STONE
     XXX.    AGAINST OVERWHELMING ODDS
     XXXI.   DEFENDING THE SUN CHILDREN
     XXXII.  ADIEU TO THE LOST CITY





THE LOST CITY.



CHAPTER I. NATURE IN TRAVAIL.

“I say, professor?”

“Very well, Waldo; proceed.”

“Wonder if this isn't a portion of the glorious climate, broken loose
from its native California, and drifting up this way on a lark?”

“If so, said lark must be roasted to a turn,” declared the third (and
last) member of that little party, drawing a curved forefinger across
his forehead, then flirting aside sundry drops of moisture. “I can't
recall such another muggy afternoon, and if we were only back in what
the scientists term the cyclone belt--”

“We would be all at sea,” quickly interposed the professor, the fingers
of one hand vigorously stirring his gray pompadour, while the other
was lifted in a deprecatory manner. “At sea, literally as well as
metaphorically, my dear Bruno; for, correctly speaking, the ocean alone
can give birth to the cyclone.”

“Why can't you remember anything, boy?” sternly cut in the roguish-eyed
youngster, with admonitory forefinger, coming to the front. “How many
times have I told you never to say blue when you mean green? Why don't
you say Kansas zephyr? Or windy-auger? Or twister? Or whirly-gust on a
corkscrew wiggle-waggle? Or--well, almost any other old thing that you
can't think of at the right time? W-h-e-w! Who mentioned sitting on a
snowdrift, and sucking at an icicle? Hot? Well, now, if this isn't a
genuine old cyclone breeder, then I wouldn't ask a cent!”

Waldo Gillespie let his feet slip from beneath him, sitting down with
greater force than grace, back supported against a gnarled juniper,
loosening the clothes at his neck while using his other hand to ply his
crumpled hat as a fan.

Bruno laughed outright at this characteristic anticlimax, while
Professor Featherwit was obliged to smile, even while compelled to
correct.

“Tornado, please, nephew; not cyclone.”

“Well, uncle Phaeton, have it your own way. Under either name, I
fancy the thing-a-ma-jig would kick up a high old bobbery with a man's
political economy should it chance to go bu'st right there! And,
besides, when I was a weenty little fellow I was taught never to call
a man a fool or a liar--”

“Waldo!” sharply warned his brother, turning again.

“So long as I knew myself to be in the wrong,” coolly finished the
youngster, face grave, but eyes twinkling, as they turned towards his
mistaken mentor. “What is it, my dear Bruno?”

“There is one thing neither cyclone nor tornado could ever deprive you
of, Kid, and that is--”

“My beauty, wit, and good sense,--thanks, awfully! Nor you, my dear
Bruno, although my inbred politeness forbids my explaining just why.”

There was a queer-sounding chuckle as Professor Featherwit turned away,
busying himself about that rude-built shed and shanty which sheltered
the pride of his brain and the pet of his heart, while Bruno smiled
indulgently as he took a few steps away from those stunted trees in
order to gain a fairer view of the stormy heavens.

Far away towards the northeast, rising above the distant hill, now
showed an ugly-looking cloud-bank which almost certainly portended a
storm of no ordinary dimensions.

Had it first appeared in the opposite quarter of the horizon, Bruno
would have felt a stronger interest in the clouds, knowing as he did
that the miscalled “cyclone” almost invariably finds birth in
the southwest. Then, too, nearly all the other symptoms were
noticeable,--the close, “muggy” atmosphere; the deathlike stillness; the
lack of oxygen in the air, causing one to breathe more rapidly, yet with
far less satisfying results than usual.

Even as Bruno gazed, those heavy cloud-banks changed, both in shape
and in colour, taking on a peculiar greenish lustre which only too
accurately forebodes hail of no ordinary force.

His cry to this effect brought the professor forth from the shed-like
shanty, while Waldo roused up sufficiently to speak:

“To say nothing of yonder formation way out over the salty drink, my
worthy friends, who intimated that a cyclone was born at sea?”

Professor Featherwit frowned a bit as his keen little rat-like eyes
turned towards that quarter of the heavens; but the frown was not for
Waldo, nor for his slightly irreverent speech.

Where but a few minutes before there had been only a few light clouds
in sight, was now a heavy bank of remarkable shape, its crest a straight
line as though marked by an enormous ruler, while the lower edge was
broken into sharp points and irregular sections, the whole seeming to
float upon a low sea of grayish copper.

“Well, well, that looks ugly, decidedly ugly, I must confess,” the wiry
little professor spoke, after that keen scrutiny.

“Really, now?” drawled Waldo, who was nothing if not contrary on the
surface. “Barring a certain little topsy-turvyness which is something
out of the ordinary, I'd call that a charming bit of--Great guns and
little cannon-balls!”

For just then there came a shrieking blast of wind from out the
northeast, bringing upon its wings a brief shower of hail, intermingled
with great drops of rain which pelted all things with scarcely less
force than did those frozen particles.

“Hurrah!” shrilly screamed Waldo, as he dashed out into the storm,
fairly revelling in the sudden change. “Who says this isn't 'way up in
G?' Who says--out of the way, Bruno! Shut that trap-door in your face,
so another fellow may get at least a share of the good things coming
straight down from--ow--wow!”

Through the now driving rain came flashing larger particles, and one
of more than ordinary size rebounded from that curly pate, sending its
owner hurriedly to shelter beneath the scrubby trees, one hand ruefully
rubbing the injured part.

Faster fell the drops, both of rain and of ice, clattering against the
shanty and its adjoining shed with an uproar audible even above the
sullenly rolling peals of heavy thunder.

The rain descended in perfect sheets for a few minutes, while the
hailstones fell thicker and faster, growing in size as the storm raged,
already beginning to lend those red sands a pearly tinge with their
dancing particles. Now and then an aerial monster would fall, to draw
a wondering cry from the brothers, and on more than one occasion Waldo
risked a cracked crown by dashing forth from shelter to snatch up a
remarkable specimen.

“Talk about your California fruit! what's the matter with good old
Washington Territory?” he cried, tightly clenching one fist and holding
a hailstone alongside by way of comparison. “Look at that, will you?
Isn't it a beauty? See the different shaded rings of white and clear
ice. See--brother, it is as large as my fist!”

But for once Professor Phaeton Featherwit was fairly deaf to the claims
of this, in some respects his favourite nephew, having scuttled back
beneath the shed, where he was busily stowing away sundry articles of
importance into a queerly shaped machine which those rough planks fairly
shielded from the driving storm.

Having performed this duty to his own satisfaction, the professor came
back to where the brothers were standing, viewing with them such of the
storm as could be itemised. That was but little, thanks to the driving
rain, which cut one's vision short at but a few rods, while the
deafening peals of thunder prevented any connected conversation during
those first few minutes.

“Good thing we've got a shelter!” cried Waldo, involuntarily shrinking
as the plank roof was hammered by several mammoth stones of ice. “One of
those chunks of ice would crack a fellow's skull just as easy!”

Yet the next instant he was out in the driving storm, eagerly snatching
at a brace of those frozen marvels, heedless of his own risk or of the
warning shouts sent after him by those cooler-brained comrades.

Thunder crashed in wildest unison with almost blinding sheets of
lightning, the rain and hail falling thicker and heavier than ever for a
few moments; but then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm passed on,
leaving but a few scattered drops to fetch up the rear.

“Isn't that pretty nearly what people call a cloudburst, uncle Phaeton?”
 asked Bruno, curiously watching that receding mass of what from their
present standpoint looked like vapour.

“Those wholly ignorant of meteorological phenomena might so pronounce,
perhaps, but never one who has given the matter either thought or
study,” promptly responded the professor, in no wise loth to give a free
lecture, no matter how brief it might be, perforce. “It is merely nature
seeking to restore a disturbed equilibrium; a current of colder air, in
search of a temporary vacuum, caused by--”

“But isn't that just what produces cy--tornadoes, though?” interrupted
Waldo, with scant politeness.

“Precisely, my dear boy,” blandly agreed their mentor, rubbing his
hands briskly, while peering through rain-dampened glasses, after that
departing storm. “And I have scarcely a doubt but that a tornado of no
ordinary magnitude will be the final outcome of this remarkable display.
For, as the record will amply prove, the most destructive windstorms are
invariably heralded by a fall of hail, heavy in proportion to the--”

“Then I'd rather be excused, thank you, sir!” again interrupted the
younger of the brothers, shrugging his shoulders as he stepped forth
from shelter to win a fairer view of the space stretching away towards
the south and the west. “I always laughed at tales of hailstones large
as hen's eggs, but now I know better. If I was a hen, and had to match
such a pattern as these, I'd petition the legislature to change my name
to that of ostrich,--I just would, now!”

Bruno proved to be a little more amenable to the law of politeness, and
to him Professor Featherwit confined his sapient remarks for the time
being, giving no slight amount of valuable information anent these
strange phenomena of nature in travail.

He spoke of the different varieties of land-storms, showing how a
tornado varied from a hurricane or a gale, then again brought to the
front the vital difference between a cyclone, as such, and the miscalled
“twister,” which has wrought such dire destruction throughout a large
portion of our own land during more recent years.

While that little lecture would make interesting reading for those who
take an interest in such matters, it need scarcely be reproduced in this
connection, more particularly as, just when the professor was getting
fairly warmed up to his work, an interruption came in the shape of a
sharp, eager shout from the lips of Waldo Gillespie.

“Look--look yonder! What a funny looking cloud that is!”

A small clump of trees growing upon a rising bit of ground interfered
with the view of his brother and uncle, for Waldo was pointing almost
due southeast; yet his excitement was so pronounced that both the
professor and Bruno hastened in that direction, stopping short as they
caught a fair sight of the object indicated.

A mighty mass of wildly disturbed clouds, black and green and white and
yellow all blending together and constantly shifting positions, out of
which was suddenly formed a still more ominous shape.

A mass of lurid vapour shot downwards, taking on the general semblance
of a balloon, as it swayed madly back and forth, an elongating trunk or
tongue reaching still nearer the earth, with fierce gyrations, as though
seeking to fasten upon some support.

Not one of that trio had ever before gazed upon just such another
creation, yet one and all recognised the truth,--this was a veritable
tornado, just such as they had read in awed wonder about, time and time
again.

Neither one of the brothers Gillespie were cravens, in any sense of the
word, but now their cheeks grew paler, and they seemed to shrink from
yonder airy monster, even while watching it grow into shape and awful
power.

Professor Featherwit was no less absorbed in this wondrous spectacle,
but his was the interest of a scientist, and his pulse beat as ordinary,
his brain remaining as clear and calm as ever.

“I hardly believe we have anything to fear from this tornado, my lads,”
 he said, taking note of their uneasiness. “According to both rule and
precedent, yonder tornado will pass to the east of our present position,
and we will be as safe right here as though we were a thousand miles
away.”

“But,--do they always move towards the northeast, uncle Phaeton?”

“As a rule, yes; but there are exceptions, of course. And unless this
should prove to be one of those rare ex--er--”

“Look!” cried Waldo, with swift gesticulation. “It's coming this way, or
I never--ISN'T it coming this way?”

“Unless this should prove to be one of those rare exceptions, my dear
boy, I can promise you that--Upon my soul!” with an abrupt change of
both tone and manner, “I really believe it IS coming this way!”

“It is--it is coming! Get a move on, or we'll never know--hunt a hole
and pull it in after you!” fairly screamed Waldo, turning in flight.



CHAPTER II. PROFESSOR FEATHERWIT TAKING NOTES.

“To the house!” cried the professor, raising his voice to overcome
yonder sullen roar, which was now beginning to come their way. “Trust
all to the aeromotor, and 'twill be well with us!”

The wiry little man of science himself fell to work with an energy which
told how serious he regarded the emergency, and, acting under his lead,
the brothers manfully played their part.

Just as had been done many times before this day, a queer-looking
machine was shoved out from the shed, gliding along the wooden ways
prepared for that express purpose, while Professor Featherwit hurried
aboard a few articles which past experience warned him might prove of
service in the hours to come, then sharply cried to his nephews:

“Get aboard, lads! Time enough, yet none to spare in idle motions. See!
The storm is drifting our way in deadly earnest!”

And so it seemed, in good sooth.

Now fairly at its dread work of destruction, tearing up the rain
dampened dirt and playing with mighty boulders, tossing them here and
there, as a giant of olden tales might play with jackstones, snapping
off sturdy trees and whipping them to splinters even while hurling them
as a farmer sows his grain.

Just the one brief look at that aerial monster, then both lads hung fast
to the hand-rail of rope, while the professor put that cunning machinery
in motion, causing the air-ship to rise from its ways with a sudden
swooping movement, then soaring upward and onward, in a fair curve, as
graceful and steady as a bird on wing.

All this took some little time, even while the trio were working as men
only can when dear life is at stake; but the flying-machine was
afloat and fairly off upon the most marvellous journey mortals ever
accomplished, and that ere yonder death-balloon could cover half the
distance between.

“Grand! Glorious! Magnificent!” fairly exploded the professor, when he
could risk a more comprehensive look, right hand tightly gripping the
polished lever through which he controlled that admirable mechanism. “I
have longed for just such an opportunity, and now--the camera, Bruno! We
must never neglect to improve such a marvellous chance for--get out the
camera, lad!”

“Get out of the road, rather!” bluntly shouted Waldo, face unusually
pale, as he stared at yonder awful force in action. “Of course I'm not
scared, or anything like that, uncle Phaeton, but--I want to rack out o'
this just about the quickest the law allows! Yes, I DO, now!”

“Wonderful! Marvellous! Incredible! That rara avis, an exception to all
exceptions!” declared the professor, more deeply stirred than either of
his nephews had ever seen him before. “A genuine tornado which has
no eastern drift; which heads as directly as possible towards the
northwest, and at the same time--incredible!”

Only ears of his own caught these sentences in their entirety, for now
the storm was fairly bellowing in its might, formed of a variety of
sounds which baffles all description, but which, in itself, was more
than sufficient to chill the blood of even a brave man. Yet, almost as
though magnetised by that frightful force, the professor was holding his
air-ship steady, loitering there in its direct path, rather than fleeing
from what surely would prove utter destruction to man and machine alike.

For a few moments Bruno withstood the temptation, but then leaned far
enough to grasp both hand and tiller, forcing them in the requisite
direction, causing the aeromotor to swing easily around and dart away
almost at right angles to the track of the tornado.

That roar was now as of a thousand heavily laden trains rumbling over
hollow bridges, and the professor could only nod his approval when thus
aroused from the dangerous fascination. Another minute, and the air-ship
was floating towards the rear of the balloon-shaped cloud itself, each
second granting the passengers a varying view of the wonder.

True to the firm hand which set its machinery in motion, the
flying-machine maintained that gentle curve until it swung around well
to the rear of the cloud, where again Professor Featherwit broke out in
ecstatic praises of their marvellous good fortune.

“'Tis worth a life's ransom, for never until now hath mortal being been
blessed with such a magnificent opportunity for taking notes and drawing
deductions which--”

The professor nimbly ducked his head to dodge a ragged splinter of
freshly torn wood which came whistling past, cast far away from the
tornado proper by those erratic winds. And at the same instant the
machine itself recoiled, shivering and creaking in all its cunning
joints under a gust of wind which seemed composed of both ice and fire.

“Oh, I say!” gasped Waldo, when he could rally from the sudden blow.
“Turn the old thing the other way, uncle Phaeton, and let's go look
for--well, almost anything's better than this old cyclone!”

“Tornado, lad,” swiftly corrected the man of precision, leaning far
forward, and gazing enthralled upon the vision which fairly thrilled
his heart to its very centre. “Never again may we have such another
opportunity for making--”

They were now directly in the rear of the storm, and as the air-ship
headed across that track of destruction, it gave a drunken stagger,
casting down its inmates, from whose parching lips burst cries of
varying import.

“Air! I'm choking!” gasped Bruno, tearing open his shirt-collar with a
spasmodic motion.

“Hold me fast!” echoed Waldo, clinging desperately to the life-line.
“It's drawing me--into the--ah!”

Even the professor gave certain symptoms of alarm for that moment,
but then the danger seemed past as the ship darted fairly across the
storm-trail, hovering to the east of that aerial phantom.

There was no difficulty in filling their lungs now, and once more
Professor Featherwit headed the flying-machine directly for the
balloon-shaped cloud, modulating its pace so as to maintain their
relative position fairly well.

“Take note how it progresses,--by fits and starts, as it were,” observed
Featherwit, now in his glory, eyes asparkle and muscles aquiver, hair
bristling as though full of electricity, face glowing with almost
painful interest, as those shifting scenes were for ever imprinted upon
his brain.

“Sort of a hop, step, and jump, and that's a fact,” agreed Waldo, now a
bit more at his ease since that awful sense of suffocation was lacking.
“I thought all cyclones--”

“Tornado, my DEAR boy!” expostulated the professor.

“I thought they all went in holy hurry, like they were sent for and
had mighty little time in which to get there. But this one,--see how it
stops to dance a jig and bore holes in the earth!”

“Another exception to the general rule, which is as you say,” admitted
the professor. “Different tornadoes have been timed as moving from
twelve to seventy miles an hour, one passing a given point in half a
score of seconds, at another time being registered as fully half an hour
in clearing a single section.

“Take the destructive storm at Mount Carmel, Illinois, in June of '77.
That made progress at the rate of thirty-four miles an hour, yet its
force was so mighty that it tore away the spire, vane, and heavy gilded
ball of the Methodist church, and kept it in air over a distance of
fifteen miles.

“Still later was the Texas tornado, doing its awful work at the rate of
more than sixty miles an hour; while that which swept through Frankfort,
Kansas, on May 17, 1896, was fully a half-hour in crossing a half-mile
stretch of bottom-land adjoining the Vermillion River, pausing in its
dizzy waltz upon a single spot for long minutes at a time.”

“Couldn't have been much left when it got through dancing, if that
storm was anything like this one,” declared Waldo, shivering a bit as
he watched the awful destruction being wrought right before their
fascinated eyes.

Trees were twisted off and doubled up like blades of dry grass. Mighty
rocks were torn apart from the rugged hills, and huge boulders were
tossed into air as though composed of paper. And over all ascended
the horrid roar of ruin beyond description, while from that misshapen
balloon-cloud, with its flattened top, the electric fluid shone and
flashed, now in great sheets as of flame, then in vicious spurts and
darts as though innumerable snakes of fire had been turned loose by the
winds.

Still the aerial demon bored its almost sluggish course straight towards
the northwest, in this, as in all else, seemingly bent on proving itself
the exception to all exceptions as Professor Featherwit declared.

The savant himself was now in his glory, holding the tiller between arm
and side, the better to manipulate his hand-camera, with which he was
taking repeated snap-shots for future development and reference.

Truly, as he more than once declared, mortal man never had, nor mortal
man ever would have, such a glorious opportunity for recording the
varying phases of nature in travail as was now vouchsafed themselves.

“Just think of it, lads!” he cried, almost beside himself with
enthusiasm. “This alone will be sufficient to carry our names ringing
through all time down the corridors of undying fame! This alone would be
more than enough to--Look pleasant, please!”

In spite of that awful vision so perilously close before them, and the
natural uncertainty which attended such a reckless venture, Waldo could
not repress a chuckle at that comical conclusion, so frequently used
towards himself when their uncle was coaxing them to pose before his pet
camera.

“Is it--surely this is not safe, uncle Phaeton?” ventured Bruno, as
another retrograde gust of air smote their apparently frail conveyance
with sudden force.

“Let's call it a day's work, and knock off,” chimed in Waldo. “If
the blamed thing should take a notion to balk, and rear back on its
haunches, where'd we come out at?”

Professor Featherwit made an impatient gesture by way of answer. Speech
just then would have been worse than useless, for that tremendous
roaring, crashing, thundering of all sounds, seemed to fall back and
envelop the air-ship as with a pall.

A shower of sand and fine debris poured over and around them, filling
ears and mouths, and blinding eyes for the moment, forcing the brothers
closer to the floor of the aerostat, and even compelling the eager
professor to remit his taking of notes for future generations.

Then, thin and reed-like, yet serving to pierce that temporary obscurity
and horrible jangle of outer sounds, came the voice of their relative:

“Fear not, my children! The Lord is our shield, and so long as he
willeth, just so long shall we--Ha! didn't I tell ye so?”

For the blinding veil was torn away, and once again the trio of
adventurers might watch yonder grandly awesome march of devastation.

“Heading direct for the Olympics!” declared Professor Featherwit,
digging the sand out of his eyes and striving to clean his glasses
without removing them, clinging to tiller and camera through all. “What
a grand and glorious guide 'twould be for us!”

“If we could only hitch on--like a tin can to the tail of a dog!”
 suggested Waldo, with boyish sarcasm. “Not any of that in mine, thank
you! I can wait. No such mighty rush. No,--SIR!”

There came no answer to his words, for just then that swooping air-demon
turned to vivid fire, lightning playing back and forth, from side
to side, in every conceivable direction, until in spite of the broad
daylight its glory pained those watching eyes.

“Did you ever witness the like!” awesomely cried Bruno, gazing like one
fascinated. “Who could or would ever believe all that, even if tongue
were able to portray its wondrous beauty?”

“What a place that would be for popping corn!” contributed Waldo,
practical or nothing, even under such peculiar circumstances. “If I had
to play poppy, though, I'd want a precious long handle to the concern!”

More intensely interested than ever, Professor Featherwit plied his
shutter, taking shot after shot at yonder aerial phenomena, feeling that
future generations would surely rise up to call him blessed when the
results of his experiments were once fairly spread before the world.

And hence it came to pass that still more thrilling experiences came
unto these daring navigators of space, and that almost before one or the
other of them could fairly realise that greater danger really menaced
both their air-ship and their lives.

Another whirly-gust of sand and other debris assailed the
flying-machine, and while sight was thus rendered almost useless for
the time being, the aerostat began to sway and reel from side to side,
shivering as though caught by an irresistible power, yet against which
it battled as though instinct with life and brain-power.

Once again the adventurers found it difficult to breathe, while an
unseen power seemed pressing them to that floor as though--Thank heaven!

Just as before, that cloud was swept away, and again air came to fill
those painfully oppressed lungs. Once again the trio cleared their eyes
and stared about, only to utter simultaneous cries of alarm.

For, brief though that period of blindness had been, 'twas amply
sufficient to carry the aeromotor perilously near yonder storm-centre,
and though Professor Featherwit gripped hard his tiller, trying all he
knew to turn the air-ship for a safer quarter,-'twas all in vain!

“Haste,--make haste, uncle Phaeton!” hoarsely panted Bruno, leaning to
aid the professor. “We will be sucked in and--hasten, for life!”

“I can't,--we're already--in the--suction!”



CHAPTER III. RIDING THE TORNADO.

Whether it was that the air-ship itself had increased its speed during
those few moments of dense obscurity, or whether the madly whirling
winds had taken a retrograde movement at that precise time, could only
be a matter of conjecture; but the ominous fact remained.

The aerostat was fairly over the danger-line, and, despite all efforts
being made to the contrary, was being drawn directly towards that
howling, crashing, thundering mass of destructive energy.

Already the inmates felt themselves being sucked from the
flying-machine, and instinctively tightened their grip upon hand-rail
and floor, gasping and oppressed, breath failing, and ribs apparently
being crushed in by that horrible pressure.

“Hold fast--for life!” pantingly screamed Professor Featherwit, as he
strove in vain to check or change the course of his aeromotor, now for
the first time beyond control of that master-hand.

A few seconds of soul-trying suspense, during which the flying-machine
shivered from stem to stern, almost like a human creature in its
death-agony, creaking and groaning, with shrill sounds coming from those
expanded, curved wings, as the suction increased; then--

A merciful darkness fell over those sorely imperilled beings, and the
vessel itself seemed about to be overwhelmed by an avalanche of sand and
dirt and mixed debris. Then came a dizzy, rocking lurch, followed by a
shock which nearly cast uncle and nephews from their frantic holds, and
the air-ship appeared to be whirled end for end, cast hither and yon,
wrenched and twisted as though all must go to ruin together.

A blast as of superheated air smote upon them one moment, while in the
next they were whirled through an icy atmosphere, then tossed dizzily to
and fro, as their too-frail vehicle spun upward as though on a journey
to the far-away stars.

A shrieking blast of wind served to briefly clear away the choking dust,
affording the trio a fleeting glimpse of their immediate surroundings:
hurtling sticks and stones, splintered tops of trees, shrubs with wildly
lashing roots freshly torn from the bed of years, all madly spinning
through a blinding, scorching, freezing mass of crazily battling winds,
the different currents twining and weaving in and out, as so many
hideous serpents at play.

A moment thus, then that horrid uproar grew still more deafening,
and the air-ship was whirled high and higher, in a dizzy dance, those
luckless creatures clinging fast to whatever their frenzied hands might
clutch, feeling that this was the end of all.

Further sight was denied them. They were powerless to move a limb, save
as jerked painfully by those shrieking currents. Breath was taken away,
and an enormous weight bore down upon them, threatening to produce a
fatal collapse through their ribs giving way.

Upward whirled the flying-machine, powerless now as those wretched
beings within its cunning shape, smitten sharply here and there by some
of those ascending missiles, yet without receiving material injury;
until a last shivering lurch came, ending in a sudden fall.

A dizzying swoop downward, but not to death and destruction, for the
aerostat alighted easily upon what appeared to be a sort of air-cushion,
and, though unsteady for a brief space, then settled upon an even keel.

“Cling fast--for life!” huskily gasped the professor, unwittingly
repeating the caution which had last crossed his lips, which he had
ever since been striving to enunciate, faithful to his guardianship over
these, his sole surviving relatives.

“I don't--where are we?”

Waldo lifted his head to peer with half-blind eyes about them, in which
action he was imitated by both brother and uncle; but, for a brief
space, they were none the wiser.

All around the aeromotor rose a wall of whirling winds, seemingly
impenetrable, apparently within reach of an extended arm, changing
colour with each fraction of a second, hideously beautiful, yet never
twice the same in blend or mixture.

A hollow, strangely sounding roar was perceptible; one instant coming as
from the far distance, then from nigh at hand, causing the air-ship
to quiver and tremble, as a sentient being might in the presence of a
torturing death.

“Look--upward!” panted Bruno, a few seconds later, his face as pale as
that of a corpse, in spite of the dirt and blotches of sticky mud with
which he had been peppered during that dizzy whirl.

Mechanically his companions in peril obeyed, catching breath sharply, as
they saw a clear sky and yellow sunshine far above,--so awfully far
they were, that it seemed like looking upward from the bottom of an
enormously deep well.

And then the marvellous truth flashed upon the brain of Phaeton
Featherwit, almost robbing him of all power of speech. Still he managed
to jerkily ejaculate:

“We're inside,--riding the--tornado--itself!”

Then those whirling winds closed quickly above them, shutting out the
sunlight, hiding the heavens from their view, enclosing that vehicle and
its occupants, as they were borne away into unknown regions, within the
very heart of the tornado itself!

Yet, incredible as it surely seems, no actual harm came to the trio
or to their flying-machine as it swayed gently upon its airy cushion,
although from every side came the horrid roar of destruction, while ever
and anon they could glimpse a wrestling tree or torn mass of shrubbery
whizzing upward and outward, to be flung far away beyond the vortex of
electrical winds.

Once more came that awful sense of suffocation. That painted pall closed
down upon them, robbing their lungs of air, one instant fairly crisping
their hair with a touch of fire, only to send an icy chill to their
veins a moment later.

In vain they struggled, fighting for breath, as a fish gasps when swung
from its native element. While that horrid pressure endured, man, youth,
and boy alike were powerless.

Again the pall lifted, folding back and blending with those madly
circling currents, once again affording a glimpse of yonder far-away
heavens, so marvellously clear, and bright, and peaceful in seeming!

Weakened by those terrible moments, Bruno and Waldo lay gasping,
trembling, faint of heart and ill of body, yet filling their lungs with
comparatively pure air,--pity there was so little of it to win!

Professor Featherwit still had thought and care for his nephews rather
than himself alone, and pantingly spoke, as he dragged himself to the
snug locker, where many important articles had been stowed away:

“Here--suck life--compressed air!”

With husky cries the brothers caught at the tubes offered, the method of
working which had so often been explained by their relative.

Once more the tube became a chamber, and that horrid force threatened
to flatten their bodies; but the worst had passed, for that precious
cylinder now gave them air to inhale, and they were enabled to wait for
the lifting of the cloud once more.

Thanks to this important agency, strength and energy both of body and
of mind now came back to the air-voyagers, and after a little they could
lift their heads to peer around them with growing wonder and curiosity.

There was little room left for doubting the wondrous truth, and yet
belief was past their powers during those first few minutes.

All around them whirled and sped those maddened winds, curling and
twisting, rising and falling, mixing in and out as though some unknown
power might be weaving the web of destiny.

Now dull, now brilliant, never twice the same, but ever changing in
colour as in shape, while stripes and zigzags of lightning played here
and there with terrifying menace, those walls of wind 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!

“What is it, uncle?” huskily asked Bruno, likewise rallying under that
beneficial influence. “Where are we now?”

“Where I'm wishing mighty hard we wasn't, anyhow!” contributed Waldo,
with something of his usual energy, although, judging from his face
and eyes, the youngster had suffered more severely than either of his
comrades in peril.

Professor Featherwit broke into a queerly sounding laugh, as he waved
his free hand in exultation before speaking:

“Where no living being ever was before us, my lads,--riding the tornado
like a--ugh!”

The air-ship gave an awkward lurch just then, and down went the little
professor to thump his head heavily against one corner of the locker.
Swaying drunkenly from side to side, then tossing up and down, turning
in unison with those fiercely whirling clouds, the aeromotor seemed at
the point of wreck and ruin.

Desperately the trio clung to the life-lines, clenching teeth upon the
life-giving tubes as that terrible pressure increased so much that it
seemed impossible for the human frame to longer resist.

Fortunately that ordeal did not long endure, and again relief came to
those so sorely oppressed. A brief gasping, sighing, stretching as the
aerostat resumed its level position, merely rocking easily within that
partial vacuum, and then Waldo huskily suggested:

“Looks like the blame thing was sick at the stomach!”

No doubt this was meant for a feeble attempt at joking, but Professor
Featherwit took it for earnest, and made quick reply:

“That is precisely the case, my dear lad, and I am greatly joyed to
find that you are not so badly frightened but that you can assist me in
taking notes of this wondrous happening. To think that we are the ones
selected for--”

“I say, uncle Phaeton.”

“Well, my lad?”

“If this thing is really sick at the stomach, when will it erupt? I'd
give a dollar and a half to just get out o' this, science or no science,
notes or no notes at all!”

“Patience, my dear boy,” gravely spoke the little man of science, busily
studying those eddying currents like one seeking a fairly safe method of
extrication from peril. “It may come far sooner than you think, and
with results more disastrous than feeble words can tell. We surely are
a burden such as a tornado must be wholly unaccustomed to, and I really
believe these alternations are spasmodic efforts of the cloud itself to
vomit us forth; hence you were nearer right than you thought in making
use of that expression.”

Just then came a rush of icy air, and Bruno pantingly cried:

“I'm swelling up--like Aesop's--bullfrog!”



CHAPTER IV. THE PROFESSOR'S LITTLE EXPERIMENT.

Again those involuntary riders of the tornado were tossed violently to
and fro in their seemingly frail ship, while the balloon itself appeared
threatened with instant dissolution, those eddying currents growing
broken and far less regular in action, while the fierce tumult grew in
sound and volume a thousandfold.

All around the air-ship now showed ugly debris, limbs and boughs and
even whole trunks of giant trees being whirled upward and outward, each
moment menacing the vessel with total destruction, yet as frequently
vanishing without infringing seriously upon their curious prison.

Sand and dirt and fragments of shattered rock whistled by in an
apparently unending shower, only with reversed motion, flying upward in
place of shooting downward to earth itself.

Speech was utterly impossible under the circumstances, and the
fate-tossed voyagers could only cling fast to the hand-rail, and hold
those precious air-tubes in readiness for the worst.

Never before had either of the trio heard such a deafening crash and
uproar, and little wonder if they thought this surely must herald the
crack of doom!

The tornado seemed to reel backward, as though repulsed by an immovable
obstacle, and then, while the din was a bit less deafening, Professor
Featherwit contrived to make himself heard, through screaming at the top
of his voice:

“The mountain range, I fancy! It's a battle to the--”

That sentence was perforce left incomplete, since the storm-demon gave
another mad plunge to renew the battle, bringing on a repetition of that
drunken swaying so upsetting to both mind and body.

A few seconds thus, then the tornado conquered, or else rose higher in
partial defeat, for their progress was resumed, and comparative quiet
reigned again.

The higher clouds curved backward, affording a wider view of the heavens
far above, and, as all eyes turned instinctively in that direction,
Bruno involuntarily exclaimed:

“Still daylight! I thought--how long has this lasted?”

“It's the middle o' next week; no less!” positively affirmed his
brother. “Don't tell me! We've been in here a solid month, by my watch!”

Instead of making reply such as might have been expected from one of his
mathematical exactness, Professor Featherwit gave a cry of dismay, while
hurriedly moving to and fro in their contracted quarters, for the time
being forgetful of all other than this, his great loss.

“What is it, uncle Phaeton?” asked Bruno, rising to his knees in natural
anxiety. “Surely nothing worse than has already happened to us?”

“Worse? What could be worse than losing for ever--the camera, boys;
where is the camera, I ask you?”

Certainly not where the professor was looking, and even as he roared
forth that query, his heart told him the sad truth; past doubting,
the instrument upon whose aid he relied to place upon record these
marvellous facts, so that all mankind might see and have full faith, was
lost,--thrown from the aerostat, to meet with certain destruction, when
the vessel first came within the tornado's terrible clutch.

“Gone,--lost,--and now who will believe that we ever--oh, this is enough
to crush one's very soul!” mourned the professor, throwing up his
hands, and sinking back to the floor of the flying-machine in a limp and
disheartened heap for the time being.

Neither Bruno nor Waldo could fully appreciate that grief, since
thoughts and care for self were still the ruling passion with both; but
once more they were called upon to do battle with the swaying of the
winds, and once again were they saved only through that life-giving
cylinder of compressed air.

Presently, the heart-broken professor rallied, as was his nature, and,
with a visible effort putting his great loss behind him, endeavoured to
cheer up his comrades in peril.

“So far we have passed through all danger without receiving material
injury,--to ourselves, I mean,--and surely it is not too much to hope
for eventual escape?” he said, earnestly, pressing the hands of his
nephews, by way of additional encouragement.

“Yes,” hesitated Bruno, with an involuntary shiver, as he glanced around
them upon those furiously boiling clouds, then cast an eye upward,
towards yonder clear sky. “Yes, but--in what manner?”

“What'll we do when the cyclone goes bu'st?” cut in Waldo, with
disagreeable bluntness. “It can't go on for ever, and when it splits
up,--where will we be then?”

“I wish it lay within my power to give you full assurance on all points,
my dear boys,” the professor made reply. “I only wish I could ensure
your perfect safety by giving my own poor remnant of life--”

“No, no, uncle Phaeton!” cried the brothers, in a single breath.

“How cheerfully, if I only might!” insisted the professor, his homely
face wearing an expression of blended regret and unbounded affection.
“But for me you would never have encountered these perils, nor ever--”

Again he was interrupted by the brothers, and forced to leave that
regret unspoken to the end.

“Only for you, uncle Phaeton, what would have become of us when we were
left without parents, home, fortune? Only for you, taking us in and
treating us as though of your own flesh and blood--”

“As you are, my good lads! Let it pass, then, but I must say that I do
wish--well, well, let it pass, then!”

A brief silence, which was spent in gripping hands and with eyes giving
pledges of love and undying confidence; then Professor Featherwit spoke
again, in an entirely different vein.

“If nothing else, we have exploded one fallacy which has never met with
contradiction, so far as my poor knowledge goes.”

“And that is--what, uncle Phaeton?”

“Observe, my lads,” with a wave of his hand towards those whirling
walls, and then making a downward motion. “You see that we are floating
in a partial vacuum, yet where there is air sufficient to preserve life
under difficulties. And by looking downward--careful that you don't fall
overboard through dizziness, though!”

“Looks as though we were floating just above a bed of ugly wind!”
 declared Waldo, after taking a look below.

“Precisely; the aerostat rests upon an air-cushion amply solid enough
to sustain far more than our combined weight. But what is the generally
accepted view, my dear boys?”

“You tell, for we don't know how,” frankly acknowledged Waldo.

“Thanks. Yet you are now far wiser than all of the scientists who have
written and published whole libraries concerning these storm formations,
but whose fallacies we are now fully prepared to explode, once for all,
through knowledge won by personal investigation--ahem!”

Strange though it may appear, the professor forgot the mutual danger
by which they were surrounded, and trotted off on his hobby-horse in
blissful pride, paying no attention to the hideous uproar going on, only
raising his voice higher to make it heard by his youthful auditors.

“The common belief is that, while these tornadoes are hollow, even
through the trunk or tongue down to its contact with the earth, that
hollow is caused by a constant suction, through which a steady stream of
debris is flowing, to be sown broadcast for miles around after emerging
from the open top of the so-called balloon.”

“But it isn't at all like that,” eagerly cried Waldo, pointing to where
the fragments were flowing upward through those walls themselves, yet
far enough from that hollow interior to be but indistinctly seen save on
rare occasions. “Look at 'em scoot, will ye? Oh, if we could only climb
up like that!”

Professor Featherwit was keenly watching and closely studying that very
phenomena through all, and now he gave a queer little chuckle, as he
nodded his head with vigour, before dryly speaking.

“Well, it might be done; yes, it might be done, and that with no very
serious difficulty, my lad.”

“How? Why not try it on, then?”

“To meet with instant death outside?” sharply queried Bruno. “It would
be suicidal to make the attempt, even if we could; which I doubt.”

Waldo gave a sudden cry, pointing upward where, far above that
destructive storm, could be seen a brace of buzzards floating on
motionless wings, wholly undisturbed by the tumult below.

“If we were only like that!” the lad cried, longingly. “If a
flying-machine could be built like those turkey-buzzards! I wish--well,
I do suppose they're about the nastiest varmints ever hatched, but just
now I'd be willing to swap, and wouldn't ask any boot, either!”

Apparently the professor paid no attention to this boyish plaint, for
he was fumbling in the locker, then withdrew his hand and uncoiled an
ordinary fish-line, with painted float attached.

Before either brother could ask a question, or even give a guess at
his purpose, Professor Phaeton flung hook and cork into those circling
currents, only to have the whole jerked violently out of his grip, the
line flying upward, to vanish from the sight of all.

That jerk was powerful enough to cut through the skin of his hand, but
the professor chuckled like one delighted, as he sucked away the few
drops of blood before adding:

“I knew it! It CAN be done, and if the worst should come to pass, why
should it not be done?”

Before an answer could be vouchsafed by either of the brothers, the pall
swooped down upon them once more, and again the supply of natural air
was shut off, while their vessel was rocked and swayed crazily, just as
though the delayed end was at last upon them.

For several minutes this torture endured, each second of which appeared
to be an hour to those imperilled beings, who surely must have perished,
as they lay pinned fast to the floor of the aerostat by that pitiless
weight, only for the precious air-tubes in connection with that cylinder
of compressed air.

After a seeming age of torment the awful pressure was relaxed, leaving
the trio gasping and shivering, as they lay side by side, barely
conscious that life lingered, for the moment unable to lift hand or head
to aid either self or another.

In spite of his far greater age, Professor Featherwit was first to
rally, and his voice was about the first thing distinguished by the
brothers, as their powers began to rally.

“Shall we take our chances, dear boys?” the professor was saying,
in earnest tones. “I believe there is a method of escaping from this
hell-chamber, although of what may lie beyond--”

“It can't well be worse than this!” huskily gasped Bruno.

“Anything--everything--just to get out o' here!” supplemented Waldo, for
once all spirits subdued.

“It may be death for us all, even if we do get outside,” gravely warned
the professor. “Bear that in mind, dear boys. It may be that not one of
us will escape with life, after--”

“How much better to remain here?” interrupted Bruno. “I felt death would
be a mercy--then! And I'd risk anything, everything, rather than go
through such another ordeal! I say,--escape!”

“Me too, all over!” vigorously decided Waldo, lifting himself to both
knees as he added: “Tell us what to do, and here I am, on deck, uncle.”

Even now Professor Phaeton hesitated, his eyes growing dimmer than usual
as they rested upon one face after the other, for right well he knew how
deadly would be the peril thus invited.

But, as the brothers repeated their cry, he turned away to swiftly
knot a strong trail-rope to a heavy iron grapnel, leaving the other end
firmly attached to a stanchion built for that express purpose.

“Hold fast, if you value life at all, dear boys!” he warned, then added:
“Heaven be kind to you, even if my life pays the forfeit! Now!”

Without further delay, he cast the heavy grapnel into that mass of
boiling vapour, then fell flat, as an awful jerk was given the aerostat.



CHAPTER V. THE PROFESSOR'S UNKNOWN LAND.

There was neither time nor opportunity for taking notes, for that
long rope straightened out in the fraction of a second, throwing all
prostrate as the flying-machine was jerked upward with awful force.

All around them raged and roared the mighty winds, while missiles of
almost every description pelted and pounded both machine and inmates
during those few seconds of extraordinary peril.

Fortunately neither the professor nor his nephews could fairly realise
just what was taking place, else their brains would hardly have stood
the test; and fortunately, too, that ordeal was not protracted.

A hideous experience while it lasted, those vicious currents dragging
the aerostat upward out of the air-chamber by means of grapnel and rope,
then casting all far away in company with wrecked trees and bushes,
and even solider materials, all shrouded for a time in dust and debris,
which hindered the eyesight of both uncle and nephews.

Through it all the brothers were dimly aware of one fact uncle Phaeton
was shrilly bidding them cling fast and have courage.

All at once they felt as though vomited forth from a volcano which
alternately breathed fire and ice, the clear light of evening bursting
upon their aching, smarting eyes with actual pain, while that horrid
roar of warring elements seemed to pass away in the distance, leaving
them--where, and how?

“We're falling to--merciful heavens! Hold fast, all!” screamed the
professor, desperately striving to regain full command of their
air-ship. “The tiller is jammed, but--”

To all seeming, the aerostat had sustained some fatal damage during that
brief eruption caused by the professor's little experiment, for it
was pitching drunkenly end for end, refusing to obey the hand of its
builder, bearing all to certain death upon the earth far below.

Half stupefied with fear, the brothers clung fast to the life-line and
glared downward, noting, in spite of themselves, how swiftly yonder dark
tree-tops and gray crags were shooting heavenward to meet them and claim
the sacrifice.

With fierce energy Professor Featherwit jerked and wrenched at the
steering-gear, uttering words such as had long been foreign to his lips,
but then--just when destruction appeared inevitable--a wild cry burst
from his lungs, as a broken bit of native wood came away in his left
hand, leaving the lever free as of old!

And then, with a dizzying swoop and rapid recovery, the gallant air-ship
came back to an even keel, sailing along with old-time grace and ease,
barely in time to avoid worse mishap as the crest of a tall tree was
brushed in their passage.

“Saved,--saved, my lads!” screamed the professor, as his heart-pet
soared upward once more until well past the danger-line. “Safe and sound
through all,--praises be unto the Lord, our Father!”

Neither brother spoke just then, for they lay there in half stupor,
barely able to realise the wondrous truth: that their lives had surely
been spared them, even as by a miracle!

That swooping turn now brought their faces towards the tornado, which
was at least a couple of miles distant, rapidly making that distance
greater even while continuing its work of destruction.

“And we--were in it!” huskily muttered Bruno, his lids closing with a
shiver, as he averted his face, unwilling to see more.

“Heap sight worse than being in the soup, too, if anybody asks you,”
 declared Waldo, beginning to rally both in strength and in spirit.
“But--what's the matter with the old ship, uncle Phaeton?”

For the aerostat was indulging itself in sundry distressing gyrations,
pretty much as a boy's kite swoops from side to side, when lacking in
tail-ballast, while the professor seemed unable to keep the machine
under complete control.

“Nothing serious, only--hold fast, all! I believe 'twould be as well to
make our descent, for fear something--steady!”

Just ahead there appeared a more than usually open space in the forest,
and, quite as much by good luck as through actual skill, Professor
Featherwit succeeded in making a landing with no more serious mishap
than sundry bruises and a little extra teeth-jarring.

As quickly as possible, both Bruno and Waldo pitched themselves out of
the partially disabled aeromotor, the elder brother grasping the grapnel
and taking a couple of turns of the strong rope around a convenient
tree-trunk, lest the ship escape them altogether.

“No need, my gallant boy!” assured the professor, an instant later. “All
is well,--all IS well, thanks to an over-ruling Providence!”

In spite of this expressed confidence, he hurriedly looked over his pet
machine, taking note of such injuries as had been received during that
remarkable journey, only giving over when fairly satisfied that all
damage might be readily made good, after which the aerostat would be as
trustworthy as upon its first voyage on high.

Then, grasping the brothers each by a hand, he smiled genially, then
lifted eyes heavenward, to a moment later sink upon his knees with bowed
head and hands folded across his bosom.

Bruno and Waldo imitated his action, and, though no audible words
were spoken, never were more heartfelt prayers sent upward, never more
grateful thanks given unto the Most High.

Boy, youth, and man alike seemed fairly awed into silence for the next
few minutes, unable to so soon cast off the spell which had fallen upon
them, one and each, when realising how mercifully their lives had been
spared, even after all earthly hope had been abandoned.

As usual, however, Waldo was first to rally, and, after silently moving
around the aerostat, upon which the professor was already busily at work
by the last gleams of the vanished sun, he paused, legs separated, and
hands thrust deep into pockets, head perking on one side as he spoke,
drawlingly:

“I say, uncle Phaeton?”

“What is it, Waldo?”

“It'll never do to breathe even a hint of all this, will it?”

“Why so, pray?”

“Whoever heard it would swear we were bald-headed liars right from
Storytown! And yet,--did it really happen, or have I been dreaming all
the way through?”

Professor Featherwit gave a brief, dry chuckle at this, rising erect to
cast a deliberate glance around their present location, then speaking:

“Without I am greatly mistaken, my dear boy, you will have still other
marvellous happenings to relate ere we return to what is, rightfully or
wrongfully, called civilisation.”

“Is that so? Then you really reckon--”

“For one thing, my lad, we are now fairly entered upon a terra
incognita, so far as our own race is concerned. In other words,--behold,
the Olympics!”

Both Bruno and Waldo cast their eyes around, but only a circumscribed
view was theirs. The shades of evening were settling fast, and on all
sides they could see but mighty trees, rugged rocks, a mountain stream
from whose pebbly bed came a soothing murmur.

“Nothing so mighty much to brag of, anyway,” irreverently quoth Waldo,
after that short-lived scrutiny. “It wouldn't fetch a dollar an acre at
auction, and for my part,--wonder when the gong will sound for supper?”

That blunt hint was effective, and, letting the subject drop for the
time being, even the professor joined in the hurry for an evening meal,
to which one and all felt able to do full justice.

Although some rain had fallen at this point as well, no serious
difficulty was experienced in kindling a fire, while Waldo had little
trouble in heaping up a bounteous supply of fuel.

Through countless ages the forest monarchs had been shedding their
superfluous boughs, while here and there lay an entire tree, overthrown
by some unknown power, and upon which the brothers made heavy
requisition.

Professor Featherwit took from the locker a supply of tinned goods,
together with a patent coffee-pot and frying-pan, so convenient where
space is scarce and stowage-room precious.

With water from the little river, it took but a few minutes more to
scent the evening with grateful fumes, after which the adventurous trio
squatted there in the ruddy glow, eating, sipping, chatting, now and
again forced to give thanks for their really miraculous preservation
after all human hopes had been exhausted.

Although Professor Featherwit was but little less thankful for the
wondrous leniency shown them, he could not altogether refrain from
mourning the loss of his camera, with its many snap-shots at the tornado
itself, to say nothing of what he might have secured in addition, while
riding the storm so marvellously.

More to take his thoughts away from that loss than through actual
curiosity in the subject offered by way of substitute, Bruno asked for
further light upon the so-called terra incognita.

“Of course it isn't really an unknown land, though, uncle Phaeton?” he
added, almost apologetically. “In this age, and upon our own continent,
such a thing is among the impossibilities.”

“Indeed? And, pray, how long since has it been that you would, with at
least equal positivity, have declared it impossible to enter a tornado
while in wildest career, yet emerge from it with life and limb intact?”

“Yes, uncle, but--this is different, by far.”

“In one sense, yes; in another, no,” affirmed the professor, with
emphatic nod, brushing the tips of his fingers together, as he moved
back to assume a more comfortable position inside the air-ship, then
quickly preparing a pipe and tobacco for his regular after-meal smoke.

A brief silence, then the professor spoke, clearly, distinctly:

“Washington has her great unknown land, quite as much as has the
interior of Darkest Africa, my boys, besides enjoying this peculiar
advantage: while adventurous white men have traversed those benighted
regions in every direction, even though little permanent good may
have been accomplished, this terra incognita remains virgin in that
particular sense of the word.”

“You mean, uncle?”

“That here in the Olympic region you see what is literally an unknown,
unexplored scope of country, as foreign to the foot of mankind as it was
countless ages gone by. So far as history reads, neither white man nor
red has ever ventured fairly within these limits; a mountainous waste
which rises from the level country, within ten or fifteen miles of the
Straits of San Juan de Fuca, in the north, the Pacific Ocean in the
west, Hood's Canal in the east, and the barren sand-hills lying to the
far south.

“This irregular range is known upon the map as the Olympics, and,
rising to the height of from six to eight thousand feet, shut in a vast
unexplored area.

“The Indians have never penetrated it, so far as can be ascertained,
for their traditions say that it is inhabited by a very fierce tribe of
warriors, before whose might and strange weapons not one of the coast
tribes can stand.”

“One of the Lost Tribes of Israel, shouldn't wonder,” drawlingly
volunteered Waldo, stifling a yawn, and forced to rub his inflamed eyes
with a surreptitious paw.

Professor Featherwit, though plainly absorbed in his curious theory, was
yet quick to detect this evidence of weariness, and laughed a bit, with
change of both tone and manner, as he spoke further:

“That forms but a partial introductory to my lecture, dear lads, but
perhaps it might be as well to postpone the rest for a more propitious
occasion. You have undergone sore trials, both of--Hark!”

Some sound came to his keen ears, which the brothers failed to catch,
but as they bent their heads in listening, another noise came, which
proved startling enough, in all conscience,--a shrill, maniacal screech,
which sent cold chills running races up each spine.



CHAPTER VI. A BRACE OF UNWELCOME VISITORS.

Instinctively the brothers drew nearer each other, as though for mutual
protection, each one letting hand drop to belt where a revolver was
habitually carried, but which was lacking now, thanks to the great haste
with which they had taken wing at the approach of the tornado.

“What is it? What can it mean?” asked Bruno and Waldo, almost in the
same breath, as those fierce echoes died away in the distance.

Professor Featherwit made no immediate reply, but by the glow of yonder
camp-fire he fumbled inside the magic locker, fetching forth firearms,
then speaking in hushed tones:

“Wait. Listen for--I knew it!”

From the opposite quarter came what might easily have been an echo of
that first wild screech, only louder, longer, more savage, if such a
thing be possible.

Prepared though they now were, neither brother could refrain from
shrinking and shuddering, so hideously that cry sounded in their ears.
But their uncle spoke in cool, clear tones:

“There is nothing supernatural about that, my lads. A panther or
mountain lion, I dare say, scenting the fumes of our cookery, and coming
to claim a share.”

“Then it isn't--Nothing spookish, uncle Phaeton?” ventured Waldo, in
slightly unsteady tones.

The professor gave swift assurance upon that point, and, rallying as
few youngsters would have done under like circumstances, the brothers
grasped the weapons supplied their hands, waiting and watching for what
was to come.

Once, twice, thrice those savage calls echoed far and wide, but with
each repetition losing a portion of their terrors; and knowing now
that prowling beasts surely were drawing nigh the camp-fire, the flying
machine was abandoned by the trio, all drawing closer to the fire, which
might prove no slight protection against attack.

Then followed a period of utter silence, during which their eyes roved
restlessly around, striving to sight the four-footed enemy ere an actual
attack could be made.

Professor Featherwit was first to glimpse a pair of greenish eyes in
silent motion, and, giving a low hiss of warning to his nephews, that
same sound serving to check further progress on the part of the wild
beast, his short rifle came to a level, then emitted a peculiar sound.

Only the keenest of ears could have noted that, for only the fraction of
an instant later followed a sharp explosion, the darkness beyond being
briefly lit up by a yellowish glare.

“That's enough,--beware its mate!” cried the professor, keenly alert for
whatever might ensue; but the words were barely across his lips when,
with a vicious snarl, a furry shape came flying through the air,
knocking Featherwit over as he instinctively ducked his head with arm
flying up as additional guard.

Both man and beast came very near falling into the fire itself, and
there ensued a wild, confused scramble, out of which the brothers
singled their enemy, Waldo opening fire with a revolver, at close range,
each shot causing the lion to yell and snarl most ferociously.

A cat-like recovery, then the fatal leap might have followed, for the
confused professor was rising to his feet again, fairly in front of the
enraged brute; but ere worse came, Waldo and Bruno were to the rescue,
one firing as rapidly as possible, his brother driving a keen-bladed
knife to the very hilt just back of that quivering forearm.

One mad wrestle, in which both lads were overthrown, then the gaunt
and muscular brute stretched its length in a shivering throe, dead even
while it strove to slay.

Just as the professor hurried to the front, beseeching his boys to
keep out of peril if they loved him; at which Waldo laughed outright,
although never had he felt a warmer love for the same odd-speaking,
queer-acting personage than right at that moment.

“I'm all right; how's it with you, sir? And--Bruno?”

“Without a scratch to remember it by,” promptly asserted the elder
brother, likewise regaining his feet and taking hasty account of stock.
“No fault of his, though!” giving that carcass a kick as he spoke. “My
gracious! I caught just one glimpse of them, and I was ready to make
affidavit that each fang would measure a foot, while his claws--”

“Would pass through an elephant and clinch on the other side,” declared
Waldo, stooping far enough to lift one of those armed paws. “But, I say,
Bruno, how awfully they have shrunk, since then!”

Whether so intended or not, this characteristic break caused a mutual
laugh, and, as there was neither sound nor sign of further danger
from like source, one and all satisfied their curiosity by minutely
inspecting the huge brute, stirring up the fire for that purpose.

“An ugly customer, indeed, if we had given him anything like a fair
show,” gravely uttered the professor. “Only for your prompt assistance,
my dear boys, what would have become of poor me?”

“We acted on our own account, as well, please remember, uncle. And even
so, after all you have done for us since--”

“What was it you shot at, uncle Phaeton?” interrupted Waldo, who was
constitutionally averse to aught which savoured of sentiment. “Another
one of these--little squirrels, was it?”

Snatching up a blazing brand, the lad moved off in that direction,
whirling the torch around his head until it burst into clear flame, then
lowering it closer to a bloody heap of fur and powerful limbs, to give a
short ejaculation of wondering awe.

It was a headless body upon which he gazed, ragged fragments of skin and
a few splinters of bone alone remaining to tell that a solid skull had
so recently been thereon.

Professor Phaeton gave another of his peculiar little chuckles, as
he drew near, then patted the compact little rifle with which he had
wrought such extraordinary work: a weapon of his own invention, as were
the dynamite-filled shells to match.

“Although I am rather puny myself, boys, with this neat little
contrivance I could fairly well hold my own against man or beast,” he
modestly averred.

“A modern David,” gravely added Bruno, while Waldo chimed in with:

“What a dandy Jack the Giant-killer you would have been, uncle Phaeton,
if you had only lived in the good old days! I wish--and yet I don't,
either! Of course, it might have been jolly old sport right then, but
now,--where'd I be, to-day?”

“A day on which has happened a miracle far more marvellous than all that
has been set down in fairyland romance, my dear son,” earnestly spoke
the professor. “And when the astounding truth shall have been published,
broadcast, throughout all Christendom, what praises--”

“How thoroughly we shall be branded liars, and falsificationers from
'way up the crick'!” exploded the youngster, making a wry grimace and
moving on to view the headless lion from a different standpoint.

“He means well, uncle Phaeton,” assured Bruno, in lowered tones. “He
would not knowingly hurt your feelings, sir, but--may I speak out?”

“Why not?” quickly. “Surely I am not one to stand in awe of, lad?”

“One to be loved and reverenced, rather,” with poorly hidden emotion;
then rallying, to add, “But when one finds it impossible to realise all
that has happened this afternoon, when one feels afraid to even make an
effort at such belief, how can the boy be blamed for feeling that all
others would pronounce us mad or--wilful liars?”

Professor Phaeton saw the point, and made a wry grimace while roughing
up his pompadour and brushing his closely trimmed beard with doubtful
hand. After all, was the whole truth to be ever spoken?

“Well, well, we can determine more clearly after fully weighing the
subject,” he said, turning back towards the flying-machine. “And, after
all, what has happened to us thus far may not seem so utterly incredible
after our explorations are completed.”

“Of this region, do you mean, sir?”

“Of the Olympic mountains, and all their mountainous chain may
encompass,--yes,” curtly spoke the man of hopes, stepping inside the
aerostat to perfect his arrangements for the night.

Waldo took greater pleasure in viewing the mountain lion towards whose
destruction he had so liberally contributed, but when he spoke of
removing the skin, Bruno objected.

“Why take so much trouble for nothing, Waldo? Even if we could stow the
pelts away on board, they would make a far from agreeable burden. And
if what I fancy lies before us is to come true, the more lightly we
are weighted, the more likely we are to come safely to--well, call it
civilisation, just for a change.”

“Then you believe that uncle Phaeton is really in earnest about
exploring this region, Bruno?”

“He most assuredly is. Did you ever know him to speak idly, or to be
otherwise than in earnest, Waldo?”

“Well, of course uncle is all right, but--sometimes--”

A friendly palm slipped over those lips, cutting short the speech which
might perchance have left a sting behind. And yet the worthy professor
had no more enthusiastic acolyte than this same reckless speaking
youngster, when the truth was all told.

Leaving the animals where they had fallen, for the time being, the
brothers passed over to where rested the aeromotor, finding the
professor busily engaged in rigging up a series of fine wires,
completely surrounding the flying-machine, save for one narrow,
gate-like arrangement.

“Beginning to feel as though you could turn in for all night, eh, my
boys?” came his cheery greeting.

“Well, somehow I do feel as though 'the sandman' had been making
his rounds rather earlier than customary,” dryly said Waldo, winking
rapidly. “I believe there must have been a bit more wind astir to-day
than common, although neither of you may have noticed the fact.”

Professor Featherwit chuckled softly while at work, but neither he nor
Bruno made reply in words. And then, his arrangements perfected save
for closing the circuit, which could only be done after all hands had
entered the air-ship, he spoke to the point:

“Come, boys. You've had a rough bit of experience this day, and there
may be still further trouble in store, here in this unknown land. Better
make sure of a full night's rest, and thus have a reserve fund to draw
upon in case of need.”

There was plenty of sound common sense in this adjuration, and, only
taking time to procure a can of fresh water from yonder stream, the two
youngsters stepped within that charmed circle, permitting their uncle to
close the circuit, and then test the queer contrivance to make sure all
was working nicely.

A confused sound broke forth, resembling the faraway tooting of tin
horns, which blended inharmoniously with the ringing of nearer bells,
all producing a noise which was warranted to arouse the heaviest sleeper
from his soundest slumber.

“That will give fair warning in case any intruder drifts this way,”
 declared the professor, chucklingly, then sinking down and wrapping
himself up in a close-woven blanket, similar to those employed by the
boys.

“Even a ghost, or a goblin, do you reckon, uncle Phaeton?”

“Should such attempt to intrude, yes. Go to sleep, you young rascal!”

But that proved to be far more readily spoken than lived up to. Not but
that the brothers were weary, jaded, and sore of muscle enough to make
even the thought of slumber agreeable; but their recent experience had
been so thrilling, so nerve-straining, so far apart from the ordinary
routine of life, that hours passed ere either lad could fairly lose
himself in sleep.

Still, when unconsciousness did steal over their weary brains, it proved
to be all the more complete, and after that neither Bruno nor Waldo
stirred hand or foot until, well after the dawn of a new day, Professor
Featherwit shook first one and then the other, crying shrilly:

“Turn out, youngsters! A new day, and plenty of work to be done!”



CHAPTER VII. THE PROFESSOR'S GREAT ANTICIPATIONS.

A stretch and a yawn, which in Waldo's case ended in a prolonged howl,
which would not have disgraced either of their four-footed visitors
of the past evening, then the brothers Gillespie sprung forth from the
flying-machine, entering upon a race for the brawling mountain stream,
“shedding” their garments as they ran.

“First man in!” cried Bruno, whose clothes seemed to slip off the more
readily; but Waldo was not to be outdone so easily, and, reckless of the
consequences, he plunged into the eddying pool, with fully half of his
daylight rig still in place.

The water proved to be considerably deeper than either brother had
anticipated, and Waldo vanished from sight for a few seconds, then
reappearing with lusty puff and splutter, shaking the pearly drops from
his close-clipped curls, while ranting:

“Another vile fabrication nailed to the standard of truth, and clinched
by the hammer of--ouch!”

A wild flounder, then the youngster fairly doubled himself up, acting
so strangely that Bruno gave a little cry of alarm; but ere the elder
brother could take further action, Waldo swung his right arm upward and
outward, sending a goodly sized trout flashing through the air to the
shore, crying in boyish enthusiasm:

“Glory in great chunks! I want to camp right here for a year to come!
Will ye look at that now?”

Bruno had to dodge that writhing missile, and, before he could fairly
recover himself, Waldo had floundered ashore, leaving a yeasty turmoil
in his wake, but then throwing up a dripping hand, and speaking in an
exaggerated whisper:

“Whist, boy! On your life, not so much as the ghost of a whimper! The
hole's ramjammed chuck full of trout, and we'll have a meal fit for the
gods if--where's my fishing tackle?”

Bruno picked up the trout, so queerly brought to light, really
surprised, but feigning still further, as he made his examination.

“It really IS a trout, and--how long have you carried this about in your
clothes, Waldo Gillespie?”

“Not long enough for you to build a decent joke over it, brother mine.
Just happened so. Tried to ram its nose in one of my pockets, and of
course I had to take him in out of the wet. Pool's just full of them,
too, and I wouldn't wonder if--oh, quit your talking, and do something,
can't you, boy?”

Vigorously though he spoke, Waldo wound up with a shiver and sharp
chatter of teeth as the fresh morning air struck through his dripping
garments. He gave a coltish prance, as he turned to seek his fishing
tackle; but, unfortunately for his hopes of speedy sport, the professor
was nigh enough to both see and hear, and at once took charge of the
reckless youngster.

“Wet to the hide, and upon an empty stomach, too! You foolish child!
Come, strip to the buff, and put on some of these garments until--here
by the fire, Waldo.”

And thus taken in tow, the lad was forced to slowly but thoroughly
toast his person beside the freshly started fire, ruefully watching his
brother deftly handle rod and line, in a remarkably short space of time
killing trout enough to furnish all with a bounteous meal.

“And I was the discoverer, while you reap all the credit, have all the
fun!” dolefully lamented Waldo, when the catch was displayed with an
ostentation which may have covered just a tiny bit of malice. “I'll put
a tin ear on you, Amerigo Vespucius!”

“All right; we'll have a merry go together, after you've cleaned the
trout for cooking, lad,” laughed his elder.

Waldo gazed reproachfully into that bright face for a brief space, then
bowed head in joined hands, to sob in heartfelt fashion, his sturdy
frame shaking with poorly suppressed grief--or mirth?

Bruno passed an arm caressingly over those shoulders, murmuring words of
comfort, earnestly promising to never sin again in like manner, provided
he could find forgiveness now. And then, with deft touch, that same hand
held his garment far enough for its mate to let slip a wriggling trout
adown his brother's back.

Waldo howled and jumped wildly, as the cold morsel slipped along his
spine, and ducking out of reach, the elder jester called back:

“Land him, boy, and you've caught another fish!”

Although laughing heartily himself, Professor Featherwit deemed it a
part of wisdom to interfere now, and, ere long, matters quieted down,
all hands engaged in preparing the morning meal, for which all teeth
were now fairly on edge.

If good nature had been at all disturbed, long before that breakfast was
despatched it was fully restored, and of the trio, Waldo appeared to be
the most enthusiastic over present prospects.

“Why, just think of it, will you?” he declaimed, as well as might be
with mouth full of crisply fried mountain trout, “where the game comes
begging for you to bowl it over, and the very fish try to jump into your
pockets--”

“Or down your back, Amerigo,” interjected Bruno, with a grin.

“Button up, or you'll turn to be a Sorry-cus--tomer, old man,” came the
swift retort, with a portentous frown. “But, joking aside, why not? With
such hunting and fishing, I'd be willing to sign a contract for a round
year in this region.”

“To say nothing of exploration, and such discoveries as naturally attend
upon--”

“Then you really mean it all, uncle Phaeton?”

Leaning back far enough to pluck a handful of green leaves, which fairly
well served the purpose of a napkin, Professor Featherwit brought forth
pipe and pouch, maintaining silence until the fragrant tobacco was well
alight. Then he gave a vigorous nod of his head, to utter:

“It has been the dearest dream of my life for more years gone by than
you would readily credit, my lads; or, in fact, than I would be wholly
willing to confess. And it was with an eye single to this very adventure
that I laboured to devise and perfect yonder machine.”

“A marvel in itself, uncle Phaeton. Only for that, where would we have
been, yesterday?” seriously spoke the elder Gillespie.

“I know where we wouldn't have been: inside that blessed cy-nado!”

“Nor here, where you can catch brook trout in your clothes without the
trouble of taking them off, youngster.”

“And where you'll catch a precious hiding, without you let up harping on
that old string; it's way out of tune already, old man.”

“Tit for tat. Excuse us, please, uncle Phaeton. We're like colts in
fresh pasture, this morning,” brightly apologised Bruno, for both.

Apparently the professor paid no attention to that bit of sparring
between his nephews, staring into the glowing camp-fire with eyes which
surely saw more than yellow coals or ruddy flames could picture; eyes
which burned and sparkled with all the fires of distant youth.

“The dearest dream of all my life!” he repeated, in half dreamy tones,
only to rouse himself, with a a start and shoulder shake, an instant
later, forcing a bright smile as he glanced from face to face. “And why
not? How better could my last years be employed than in piercing the
clouds of mystery, and doubt, and superstition, with which this vast
tract has been enveloped for uncounted ages?”

“Is it really so unknown, then, uncle Phaeton?” hesitatingly asked
Bruno, touched, in spite of himself, by that intensely earnest tone and
expression. “Of course, I know what the Indians say; they are full of a
rude sort of superstitious awe, which--”

“Which is one of the surest proofs that truth forms a foundation for
that very superstition,” quickly interjected the professor. “It is an
undisputed fact that there are hundreds upon hundreds of square miles of
terra incognita, lying in this corner of Washington Territory. No white
man ever fairly penetrated these wilds, even so far as we may have been
carried while riding the tornado. Or, if so, he assuredly has never
returned, or made known his discoveries.”

“Provided there was anything beyond the ordinary to see or experience,
shouldn't we add, uncle?” suggested Waldo, modestly.

“There is,--there must be! No matter how wildly improbable their
traditions may seem in our judgment, it only takes calm investigation
to bring a fair foundation to light. In regard to this vast scope of
country, go where you will among the natives, question whom you see
fit, as to its secrets, and you will meet with the same results: a
deep-seated awe, a belief which cannot be shaken, that here strange
monsters breed and flourish, matched in magnitude and power by an armed
race of human beings, before whose awful might other tribes are but as
ants in the pathway of an elephant.”

Waldo let escape a low, prolonged whistle of mingled wonder and
incredulity, but Bruno gave him a covert kick, himself too deeply
interested to bear with a careless interruption just then.

“Of course there may be something of exaggeration in all this,” admitted
the enthusiastic professor. “Undoubtedly, there is at least a fair spice
of that; but, even so, enough remains to both waken and hold our keenest
interest. Listen, and take heed, my good lads.

“You have often enough, of late days, noticed these mountains, and if
you remark their altitude, the vast scope of country they dominate, the
position they fill, you must likewise realise one other fact: that an
immense quantity of snow in winter, rain in spring and autumn, surely
must fall throughout the Olympics. Understand?”

“Certainly; why not, uncle Phaeton?”

“Then tell me this: where does all the moisture go to? What becomes of
the surplus waters? For it is an acknowledged fact that, though rivers
and brooks surely exist in the Olympics, not one of either flows away
from this wide tract of country!”

The professor paused for a minute, to let his words take full effect,
then even more positively proceeded:

“You may say, what I have had others offer by way of solution, that all
is drained into a mighty inland sea or enormous lake. Granting so much,
which I really believe to be the truth as far as it goes, why does that
lake never overflow? Of all that surely must drain into its basin,
be that enormously wide and deep as it may, how much could ordinary
evaporation dispose of? Only an infinitesimal portion; scarcely worth
mentioning in such connection. Then,--what becomes of the surplusage?”

Another pause, during which neither Gillespie ventured a solution; then
the professor offered his own suggestion:

“It must flow off in some manner, and what other manner can that be
than--through a subterranean connection with the Pacific Ocean?”

Bruno gave a short ejaculation at this, while Waldo broke forth in
words, after his own particular fashion:

“Jules Verne redivivus! Why can't WE take a trip through the centre of
the earth, or--or--any other little old thing like that?”

“With the tank of compressed air as a life-preserver?” laughed Bruno, in
turn. “That might serve, but; unfortunately, we have only the one, and
we are three in number, boy.”

“Only two, now; I'm squelched!” sighed the jester, faintly.

If the professor heard, he heeded not. Still staring with vacant gaze
into the fire, his face bearing a rapt expression curious to see, he
broke into almost unconscious speech:

“An enormous inland sea! Where float the mighty ichthyosaurus, the
megalosaurus, in company with the gigantic plesiosaurus! Upon whose
sloping shores disport the enormous mastodon, the stately megatherium,
the tremendous--eh?”

For Waldo was now afoot, brandishing a great branch broken from a dead
tree, uttering valiant war-whoops, and dealing tremendous blows upon
an imaginary enemy, spouting at the top of his voice a frenzied jargon,
which neither his auditors nor himself could possibly make sense out of.

Bruno, ever sensitive through his affectionate reverence for their
uncle, caught the youngster, and cast him to earth, whereupon Waldo
pantingly cried:

“Go on, please, uncle Phaeton. It's next thing to a museum and menagerie
combined, just to hear--”

“Will you hush, boy?” demanded Bruno, yet unable to wholly smother a
laugh, so ridiculous did it all sound and seem.

But Professor Featherwit declined, his foxy face wrinkling in a bashful
laugh. Whether so intended or not, he had been brought down to earth
from that dizzy flight, and now was fairly himself again.

“Well, my dear boys, I dare say it seems all a matter of jest and sport
to you; yet, after our riding in the centre of a tornado for uncounted
miles, coming forth with hardly a scratch or a bruise to show for it
all, who dare say such things may not be, even yet?”

“But,--those strange creatures are gone; the last one perished thousands
upon thousands of years ago, uncle Phaeton.”

“So it is said, and so follows the almost universal belief. Yet I have
seen, felt, cooked, tasted, and ate to its last morsel a steak from a
mammoth. True, the creature was dead; had been preserved for ages, no
doubt, within the glacier which finally cast it forth to human view; yet
who would have credited such a discovery, only fifty years ago? He who
dared to even hint at such a thing would have been derided and laughed
at, pronounced either fool or lunatic. And so,--if we should happen to
discover one or all of those supposedly extinct creatures here in this
terra incognita, I would be overjoyed rather than astounded.”

Bruno looked grave at this conclusion, but Waldo was not so readily
impressed, and, with shrugging shoulders, he made answer:

“Well, uncle, I'm not quite so ambitious as all that comes to. May I
give you my idea of it all?”



CHAPTER VIII. A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

Professor Featherwit nodded assent, and, after a brief chuckle, Waldo
resumed:

“You can take all those big fellows with the jaw-breaking names, but as
for me, smaller game will do. Maybe a fellow couldn't fill his bag quite
so full, nor quite so suddenly, but there would be a great deal more
sport, and a mighty sight less danger, I take it!”

It was by no means difficult to divine that the professor had not yet
spoken all that busied his brain, but the thread was broken, his pipe
was out, and, emptying the ashes by tapping pipe-bowl against the heel
of his shoe, he rose erect, once more the man of action.

“You will have to clear up, lads, for I must make such few repairs as
are necessary to restore the aerostat to a state of efficiency. So long
as that remains in serviceable condition, we will always have a method
of advance or retreat. Without it--well, I'd rather not think of the
alternative.”

That dry tone and quiet sentence did more than all else to impress
the brothers with a sense of their unique position. Back came the
remembrance of all they had gathered concerning this strange scope
of country since first settling down fairly within the shadows of the
Olympics, there to put that strange machine together, preparing for what
was to prove a wonder-tour through many marvellous happenings.

Times beyond counting they had been assured by the natives that no
mortal could fairly penetrate that vast wilderness. Natural obstacles
were too great for any man to surmount, without saying aught of what lay
beyond; of the enormous animals, such as the civilised world never knew
or fought with; of the terrible natives, taller than the pines, larger
than the hills, more powerful by far than the gods themselves, eager to
slay and to devour,--so eager that, at times, living flesh and blood was
more grateful than all to their depraved tastes!

“Do you really reckon there is anything in it all, Bruno?” asked the
younger brother in lowered tones, glancing across to where their uncle
was busily engaged in those comparatively trifling repairs.

“It hardly seems possible, and yet--would the members of four different
tribes tell a story so nearly alike, without they had at least a
foundation of truth to go upon?”

“That's right. And yet--the inland sea sounds natural enough. We know,
too, that there are such things as underground rivers, outside of Jules
Verne's yarns. But those animals,--or reptiles,--which?”

“Both, I believe,” answered Bruno, with a subdued laugh.

“That's all right, old man. I never was worth a continental when it came
to such things. I prefer to live in the present, and so--well, now, will
you just look at that old cow!”

In surprise Waldo pointed across to where a bovine shape showed not far
beyond the pool at the base of the miniature waterfall; but his brother
had a fairer view, and, instantly divining the truth, grasped an arm and
hastily whispered:

“Hush, boy; can't you see? It's a buffalo, a hill buffalo, and--”

“Quick! the guns are in the machine! Down, Bruno, and maybe we can get a
shot and--”

His eager whisper was cut short, though not by grip of arm or act by
his brother. A rumbling roar broke forth from the further side of that
mountain stream, and as the dense bushes beyond were violently agitated,
the hill buffalo wheeled that way with marvellous rapidity.

Just as a long head and mighty shoulders spread the shrubbery wide
apart, jaws opening and lips curling back to lay great teeth bare, while
another angry sound, half growl, half snort, only too clearly proclaimed
that monster of the mountains, a grizzly bear.

“Smoke o' sacrifice!” gasped Waldo, as the grizzly suddenly upreared its
mighty bulk, head wagging, paws waving in queer fashion, lolling tongue
lending the semblance of drollery rather than viciousness.

“This way; to your guns, boys!” cautiously called out the professor,
whose notice had likewise been caught by those unusual sounds, and who
had already armed himself with his pet dynamite gun.

“Careful! He'll make a break for us at first sight, unless--down close,
and crawl for it, brother!”

Bruno set the good example, and Waldo was not too proud of spirit to
humble himself in like manner. Although this was their first glimpse
of “Old Eph” in his native wilds, both brothers entertained a very
respectful opinion of his prowess.

Under different circumstances their expectations might have been more
fully met, but just now the grizzly seemed wholly occupied with the
buffalo bull, whose sturdy bulk and armed front so resolutely opposed
his further progress towards that common goal, the pool of water.

The boys quickly reached the flying-machine and gripped the Winchester
rifles which Professor Featherwit had drawn forth from the locker at
first sight of the dangerous game. Thus armed, they felt ready for
whatever might come, and stood watching yonder rivals with growing
interest.

“Will you look at that, now?” excitedly breathed Waldo, eyes aglow, as
he saw the bull cock its tail on high and tear up the soft soil with one
fierce sweep of its cloven hoof, shaking head and giving vent to a low
but determined bellow.

“It means a fight unto the death, I think,” whispered the professor.

“It's dollars to doughnuts on the bear,” predicted Waldo. “Scat, you
bull-headed idiot! Don't you know that you're not deuce high to his ace?
Can't you see that he can chew you up like--”

“Are you mighty sure of all that, boy?” laughingly cut in Bruno; for at
that moment the buffalo made a sudden charge at his upright adversary,
knocking the grizzly backward in spite of its viciously flying paws.

“Great Peter on a bender! If I ever--no, I never!”

Even the professor was growing excited, holding the dynamite gun under
one arm while gently tapping palms together as an encore.

Naturally enough, their sympathies were with the buffalo, since the odds
seemed so immensely against him; but their delight was short-lived, for,
instead of following up the advantage so bravely won, the bull fell back
to paw and bellow and shake his shaggy front.

With marvellous activity for a brute of his enormous bulk and weight,
the grizzly recovered its feet, then lumbered forward with clashing
teeth and resounding growls.

Nothing loath, the buffalo met that charge, and for a short space of
time the struggle was veiled by showers of leaf-mould and damp dirt cast
upon the air as the rivals fought for supremacy--and for life.

For that this was destined to be a duel to the very death not one of
those spectators could really doubt. That encounter may have been purely
accidental, but the creatures fought like enemies of long standing.

As their relative positions changed, the buffalo contrived to get in
another vigorous butt, sending bruin end for end down that gentle slope
to souse into the pool of water, that cool element cutting short a
savage roar of mad fury.

Then the trio of spectators could take notes, and with something of
sorrow they saw that the buffalo had already suffered severely, bleeding
from numerous great gashes torn by the grizzly's long talons, while one
bloody eye dangled below its socket, held only by a thread of sinew.

Nor had bruin escaped without hurt, as all could see when he floundered
out of the water, bent upon renewing the duel; but there was little room
left for doubting what the ultimate result would be were the animals
left to their own devices.

Like all bold, free-hearted lads, Waldo ever sympathised with the
weaker, and now, unable to hold his feelings in check, he gave a short
cry, levelling his Winchester and opening fire upon the grizzly, just as
it won fairly clear of the water.

Stung to fury by those pellets, the brute reared up with a horrid roar,
turning as though to charge this new enemy; but ere he could do more,
the professor's gun spoke, and as the dynamite shell exploded, bruin
fell back a writhing mass, his head literally smashed to pieces.

Heedless of all else, the wounded buffalo charged with lusty bellow,
goring that quivering mass with unabated fury, though its life was
clearly leaking out through those ghastly cuts and slashes.

A brief pause, then Professor Featherwit swiftly reloaded his gun,
sending another shell across the stream, this time more as a boon than
as punishment.

Smitten fairly in the forehead, the bull dropped as though beneath a
bolt of lightning, life going out without so much as a single struggle
or a single pang.

“Twas better thus,” declared the professor, as Waldo gave a little
ejaculation of dismay. “He must have bled to death in a short time, and
this was true mercy. Besides, buffalo meat is very good eating, and the
day may come when we shall need all we can get. Who knows?”

After the animals were inspected, and due comment made upon the awfully
sure work wrought by the dynamite gun, the professor suggested that,
while he was completing repairs upon the aeromotor, the brothers should
secure a supply of fish and of flesh, cooking sufficient to provide for
several meals, for there was no telling just when they would have an
equal chance.

“Just as soon as we can put all in readiness,” he continued, “I am going
to leave this spot. My first wish is to thoroughly test the aerostat,
to make certain it has received no serious injury. Then, if all promises
well, I mean to begin our tour of exploration, hoping that we may, at
least, find something well worthy the strange reputation given these
Olympics by the natives.”

Without raising any objections, the brothers fell to work, Bruno looking
after the flesh, while Waldo undertook to supply the fish. That was but
fair, since he had been cheated out of catching the first mess.

Not a little to his delight, the professor found that the flying-machine
would promptly answer his touch and will, rising easily off the ground,
then descending at call, evidently having passed through the ordeal of
the bygone evening without serious harm.

Still, all this consumed time, and it was after a late dinner that
everything was pronounced in readiness for an ascension: the meat and
fish nicely cooked and packed for carriage, a pot of strong coffee made
and stowed beyond risk of leakage, the flying-machine itself quivering
in that gentle breeze as though eager to find itself once more afloat
far above the earth and its obstructions to easy navigation.

Waldo expressed some grief at leaving a spot where game came in such
plentitude to find the hunter, and trout simply longed to be caught; but
upon being assured of other opportunities, perhaps even more delightful,
he sighed and gave consent to mount into space.

“Only--don't ask me to tackle any of those big dictionary fellows such
as you talked about this morning, uncle Phaeton, for I simply can't;
they'd get away with my baggage while I was trying to spell their names
and title--and all that!”

Without any difficulty the aeromotor was sent out of and above the
forest, heading towards the northwest; that is, direct for the heart of
the Olympics, of whose marvels Professor Featherwit held such exalted
hopes and expectations.

Grim and forbidding those mountains looked as the air-ship sailed
swiftly over them, opening up a wider view when the bare, rugged crest
was once left fairly to the rear. Save for those bald crowns, all below
appeared a solid carpet of tree-tops, now lower, there higher, yet ever
the same: seemingly impenetrable to man, should such an effort be made.

Once fairly within the charmed circle, leaving the rocky ridge behind,
Professor Featherwit slackened speed, permitting the ship to drift
onward at a moderate pace, one hand touching the steering-gear, while
its fellow held a pair of field-glasses to his eager eyes.

All at once he gave a half-stifled cry, partly rising in his excitement,
then crying aloud in thrilling tones:

“The sea,--an inland sea!”



CHAPTER IX. GRAPPLING A QUEER FISH.

At nearly the same moment both Bruno and Waldo caught a glimpse of
water, shining clear and distinct amidst that sombre setting; but as yet
a tree-crested elevation interfered with the prospect, and it was not
until after the course of the air-ship had been materially changed, and
some little time had elapsed, that aught definite could be determined as
to the actual spread of that body of water.

This proved to be considerable, although it needed but a single look
into the professor's face to learn that his eager hopes and exalted
anticipations fell far short of realisation.

“Well, it's a sea all right,” generously declared Waldo, giving a
vigorous sniff by way of strengthening his words. “I can smell the salt
clear from this. A sea, even if it isn't quite so large as others,--what
one might term a lower-case c!”

If nothing else, that generous effort brought its reward in the dry
little chuckle which escaped the professor's lips, and a kindly glow
showed through his glasses as he turned towards Waldo with a nod of
acknowledgment.

“Barring the salty scent, my dear boy, which probably finds birth in
your kindly imagination. So, on the whole, perhaps 'twould be just as
well to term it a lake.”

“One of no mean dimensions, at any rate, uncle Phaeton.”

“True, Bruno,” with a nod of agreement, yet with forehead contracting
into a network of troubled lines. “Naturally so, and yet--surely this
must be merely a portion? Unless--yet I fail to see aught which might be
interpreted as being--”

Promptly responding to each touch of hand upon steering-gear, the
aeromotor swung smoothly around, sailing on even keel right into the
teeth of the gentle wind, by this time near enough to that body of water
for the air-voyagers to scan its surface: a considerable expanse, all
told, yet by no means of such magnitude as Professor Featherwit had
anticipated.

Too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the little cries and
ejaculations which came from the brothers, he caused the aerostat to
rise higher, slowly sweeping that extended field with his glasses.

He could see where several streams entered the body of water, coming
from opposite points of the compass, and thus confirming at least one
portion of his explained theory; but, so far as his visual powers went,
there was no other considerable body of water to be discovered.

“Yet, how can that contracted basin contain all the drainage from this
vast scope of country? How can we explain the stubborn fact of--What
now, lads?”

An abrupt break, but one caused by the eager cry and loud speech from
the lips of the younger Gillespie.

“Looky yonder! Isn't that one o' those sour-us dictionary fellows on a
bender? Isn't that--but I don't--no, it's only--”

“Only a partly decayed tree gone afloat!” volunteered Bruno, with a
merry laugh, as his eager brother drew back in evident chagrin.

“Well, that's all right. It ought to've been one, even if it isn't.
What's the use in coming all this way, if we're not going to discover
something beyond the common? And my sour-us is worth more than one of
the other kind, after all; get it ashore and you might cook dinner for a
solid month by it; now there!”

It was easily to be seen that Waldo had been giving free rein to his
expectations ever since the professor's little lecture, but his natural
chagrin was quickly forgotten in a matter of far greater interest.

Professor Featherwit had resumed his scrutiny of yonder body of water,
slowly turning his glasses while holding the air-ship on a true course
and even keel.

For a brief space nothing interfered with the steady motion of
the field-glasses, but then something called for a more thorough
examination, and little by little the savant leaned farther forward,
breath coming more rapidly, face beginning to flush with deepening
interest.

Bruno took note of all this, and, failing to see aught to account for
the symptoms with unaided eyes, at length ventured to speak.

“What is it, uncle Phaeton? Something of interest, or your looks--”

Professor Featherwit gave a start, then lowered the glasses and reached
them towards his nephew, speaking hurriedly:

“You try them, Bruno; your eyes are younger, and ought to be keener than
mine. Yonder; towards the lower end of the--the lake, please.”

Nothing loath, Gillespie complied, quickly finding the correct point
upon which the professor's interest had centred, holding the glasses
motionless for a brief space, then giving vent to an eager ejaculation.

“What is it all about, bless you, boy?” demanded Waldo, unable longer to
curb his hot impatience. “Another drifting tree, eh?”

“No, but,--did you see it, uncle?”

“I saw something which--what do YOU see, first?”

“A great big suck,--a monster whirlpool which is hollowed like--”

“I knew it! I felt that must be the true solution of it all!” cried
uncle Phaeton, squirming about pretty much as one might into whose veins
had been injected quicksilver in place of ordinary blood. “The outlet!
Where the surplus waters drain off to the Pacific Ocean!”

“I say, give me a chance, can't you?” interrupted Waldo, grasping the
glasses and shifting his station for one more favourable as a lookout.

He had seen sufficient to catch the right angle, and then gave a
suppressed snort as he took in the view. Half a minute thus, then a wild
cry escaped his lips, closely followed by the words:

“Now I DO see something! And it isn't a drifting tree, either! Or, that
is, something else which--shove her closer, uncle Phaeton! True as you
live, there's something caught in yonder big suck which is--closer, for
love of glory!”

“If this is another joke, Waldo--”

“No, no, I tell you, Bruno! Shove her over, uncle, for, without this
glass is hoodooed, we're needed right yonder,--and needed mighty bad,
too!”

Little need of so much urging, by the way, since Professor Featherwit
was but slightly less excited by their double discovery, and even before
the glasses were clapped to Waldo's eyes the aerostat swung around to
move at full speed towards that precise quarter of the compass.

“What is it you see, then, boy?” demanded Bruno, itching to take the
glasses, yet straining his own vision towards that as yet far-distant
spot.

“Something like--oh, see how the water is running out,--just like
emptying a bathtub through a hole at the bottom! And see what--a man
caught in the whirl, true's you're a foot high, uncle!”

“A man? Here? Impossible,--incredible, boy!” fairly exploded the
professor, not yet ready to relinquish his cherished belief in a terra
incognita.

The air-voyagers were swiftly nearing that point of interest, and now
keen-eyed Bruno caught a glimpse of a drifting object which had been
drawn within the influence of yonder whirlpool, but which was just as
certainly a derelict from the forest.

“Another floating tree-trunk for Waldo!” he cried, with a short laugh,
feeling far from unpleased that the intense strain upon his nerves
should be thus lessened. “Try it again, lad, and perhaps--”

“Try your great-grandmother's cotton nightcap! Don't you suppose I can
tell the difference between a tree and a--”

“Ranting, prancing, cavorting 'sour-us' right out of Webster's
Unabridged, eh, laddy-buck?”

“That's all right, if you can only keep on thinking that way, old man;
but if yonder isn't a fellow being in a mighty nasty pickle, then I
wouldn't even begin to say so! And--you look, uncle Phaeton, please.”

Nothing loath, the professor took the proffered glasses, and but an
instant later he, too, gave a sharp cry of amazement, for he saw,
clinging to the trunk of a floating tree, swiftly moving with those
circling waters, a living being!

And but a few seconds later, Bruno made the same discovery, greatly to
the delight of his younger brother.

“A man! And living, too!”

“Of course; reckon I'd make such a howl about a floater?” bluntly
interjected Waldo. “But I'll do my crowing later on. For now we've got
to get the poor fellow out of that,--just got to yank him out!”

Through all this hasty interchange of words, the aeromotor was swiftly
progressing, and now swung almost directly above the whirlpool, giving
all a fair, unobstructed view of everything below.

The suction was so great that a sloping basin was formed, more than one
hundred yards in diameter, while the actual centre lay a number of feet
lower than the surrounding level.

Half-way down that perilous slope a great tree was revolving, and to
this, as his forlorn hope, clung a half-clad man, plainly alive, since
he was looking upward, and--yes, waving a hand and uttering a cry for
aid and succour.

“Help! For love of God, save me!”

“White,--an American, too!” exploded Waldo, taking action as by
brilliant inspiration. “Hang over him, uncle, for I'm going--to go
fishing--for a man!”

Waldo was tugging at the grapnel and long drag-rope. Bruno was quick
to divine his intention, and lent a deft hand, while the professor
manipulated the helm so adroitly as to keep the flying-machine hovering
directly above yonder imperilled stranger, leaning far over the
hand-rail to shout downward:

“Have courage, sir, and stand ready to help yourself! We will rescue you
if it lies within the possibilities of--we WILL save you!”

“You bet we just will, and right--like this,” spluttered Waldo, as he
cast the grapnel over the rail and swiftly lowered it by the rope. “Play
you're a fish, stranger, and when you bite, hang on like grim death to
a--steady, now!”

Fortunately nothing occurred to mar the programme so hastily arranged,
for the drift was drawing nearer the centre of the whirl, and if once
fairly caught by that, nothing human could preserve the stranger from
death.

“Make a jump and grab it, if you can't do better!” cried Waldo,
intensely excited now that the crisis was at hand.

The long rope with its iron weight swayed awkwardly in spite of all he
could do to steady it, and as each one of the three prongs was meant for
catching and holding fast to whatever they touched, there was no slight
risk of impaling the man, thus giving him the choice of another and
still more painful death.

Then, with a desperate grasp, a death-clutch, he caught one arm of the
grapnel, holding fast as the shock came. He was carried clear of the
tree, and partly submerged in the water as his added weight brought the
flying-machine so much lower.

“Up, up, uncle Phaeton!” fairly howled Waldo, at the same time tugging
at the now taut rope, in which he was ably seconded by his brother. “For
love of--higher, uncle!”

Then the noble machine responded to the touch of its builder, lifting
the dripping stranger clear of the whirling currents, swinging him away
towards yonder higher level, where a fall would not prove so quickly
fatal. And then the eager professor gave a shrill cheer as he saw the
man, by a vigorous effort, draw his body upward sufficiently far to
throw one leg over an arm of the grapnel itself.

Knowing now that the rescued was in no especial peril, uncle Phaeton
left the air-ship to steer itself long enough for his nimble hands to
take several turns of the drag-rope around the cleat provided for
that express purpose, thus relieving both Bruno and Waldo of the heavy
strain, which might soon begin to tell upon them.

“Hurrah for we, us, and company!” cried Waldo, relieving his lungs of
a portion of their pent-up energy, then leaning perilously far over the
edge of the machine to encourage the queer fish he had hooked.



CHAPTER X. RESCUED AND RESCUERS.

Despite their very natural excitement, caused by this peril and its
foiling, Professor Featherwit retained nearly all his customary coolness
and presence of mind.

Readily realising that after such a grim ordeal would almost certainly
come a powerful revulsion, his first aim was to swing the stranger far
enough away from the whirlpool to give him a fair chance for life, in
case he should fall, through dizziness or physical collapse, from the
end of the drag-rope.

This took but a few seconds, comparatively speaking, though, doubtless,
each moment seemed an age to the rescued stranger. Then the professor
slowed his ship, looking around in order to determine upon the wisest
route to take.

For one thing, it would be severe work to draw the stranger bodily
up and into the aerostat. For another, unless he should grow weak, or
suffer from vertigo, both time and labour would be saved by taking him
direct to the shore of this broad lake.

As soon as the rope was made fast, and the strain taken off their
muscles as well as their minds, Bruno flashed a look around, naturally
turning his eyes in the direction of the whirlpool.

Although less than a couple of minutes had elapsed since the man was
lifted off the circling drift, even thus quickly had the end drawn nigh;
for, even as he looked that way, Gillespie saw the great trunk sucked
into the hidden sink, the top rising with a shiver clear out of the
water as the butt lowered, a hollow, rumbling sound coming to all ears
as--

“Gone!” cried Bruno, in awed tones, as the whole drift vanished from
sight for ever.

“Sucked in by Jonah's whale, for ducats!” screamed Waldo, excitedly.
“Fetch on your blessed 'sour-us' of both the male and female sect! Trot
'em to the fore, and if my little old suck don't take the starch out of
their backbones,--they DID have backbones, didn't they, uncle Phaeton?”

Professor Featherwit frowned, and shook his head in silent reproof.
More nearly, perhaps, than either of the boys, he realised what an awful
peril this stranger had so narrowly escaped. It was far too early to
turn that escape into jest, even for one naturally light of heart.

He leaned over the hand-rail, peering downward. He could see the rescued
man sitting firmly in the bend of the grapnel, one hand tightly gripping
the rope, its mate shading his eyes, as he stared fixedly towards
the whirling death-pool, from whose jaws he had so miraculously been
plucked.

There was naught of debility, either of body or of mind, to be read in
that figure, and with his fears on that particular point set at rest,
for the time being, Professor Featherwit called out, distinctly:

“Is it all well with you, my good friend? Can you hold fast until the
shore is reached, think?”

“Heaven bless you,--yes!” came the reply, in half-choked tones. “If I
fail in giving thanks--”

“Never mention it, friend; it cost us nothing,” cheerily interrupted the
professor, then adding, “Hold fast, please, and we'll put on a wee bit
more steam.”

The flying-machine was now fairly headed for a strip of shore which
offered an excellent opportunity for making a safe landing, and as that
accelerated motion did not appear to materially affect the stranger, it
took but a few minutes to clear the lake.

“Stand ready to let go when we come low enough, please,” warned the
professor, deftly managing his pet machine for that purpose.

The stranger easily landed, then watched the flying-machine with
painfully eager gaze, hands clasped almost as though in prayer. A more
remarkable sight than this half-naked shape, burned brown by the sun,
poorly protected by light skins, with sinew fastenings, could scarcely
be imagined; and there was something close akin to tears in more eyes
than one when he came running in chase, arms outstretched, and voice
wildly appealing:

“Oh, come back! Take me,--don't leave me,--for love of God and humanity,
don't leave me to this living death!”

Professor Featherwit called back a hasty assurance, and brought the
air-ship to a landing with greater haste than was exactly prudent, all
things considered; but who could keep cool blood and unmoved heart, with
yonder piteous object before their eyes?

When he saw that the flying-machine had fairly landed, and beheld its
inmates stepping forth upon the sands with friendly salutations, the
rescued stranger staggered, hands clasping his temples for a moment of
drunken reeling, then he fell forward like one smitten by the hand of
sudden death.

Professor Featherwit called out a few curt directions, which were
promptly obeyed by his nephews, and after a few minutes' well-directed
work consciousness was restored, and the stranger feebly strove to give
them thanks.

In vain these were set aside. He seemed like one half-insane from joy,
and none who saw and heard could think that all this emotion arose from
the simple rescue from the whirlpool. Nor did it.

Wildly, far from coherently, the poor fellow spoke, yet something of
the awful truth was to be gleaned even from those broken, disjointed
sentences.

For ten years an exile in these horrible wilds. For ten years not a
single glimpse of white face or figure. For ten ages no intelligible
voice, save his own; and that, through long disuse, had threatened to
desert him!

“Ten years!” echoed Waldo, in amazement. “Why didn't you rack out o'
this, then? I know I would; even if the woods were full of--'sour-us'
and the like o' that! Yes, SIR!”

A low, husky laugh came through those heavily bearded lips, and the
stranger flung out his hands in a sweeping gesture, sunken eyes glowing
with an almost savage light as he spoke with more coherence:

“Why is it, young gentleman? Why did I not leave, do you ask? Look!
All about you it stretches: a cell,--a death-cell, from which escape is
impossible! Here I have fought for what is ever more precious than bare
life: for liberty; but though ten awful years have rolled by, here I
remain, in worse than prison! Escape? Ah, how often have I attempted
to escape, only to fail, because escape from these wilds is beyond the
power of any person not gifted with wings!”

“Ten years, you say, good friend? And all that time you have lived here
alone?” asked the professor, curiously.

“Ten years,--ten thousand years, I could almost swear, only for keeping
the record so carefully, so religiously. And--pitiful Lord! How gladly
would I have given my good right arm, just for one faraway glimpse
of civilisation! How often--but I am wearying you, gentlemen, and you
may--pray don't think that I am crazy; you will not?”

Both the professor and Bruno assured him to the contrary, but Waldo was
less affected, and his curiosity could no longer be kept within bounds.
Gently tapping one hairy arm, he spoke:

“I say, friend, what were you doing out yonder in the big suck? Didn't
you know the fun was hardly equal to the risk, sir?”

“Easy, lad,” reproved the professor; but with a a smile, which strangely
softened that haggard, weather-worn visage, the stranger spoke:

“Nay, kind sir, do not check the young gentleman. If you could only
realise how sweet it is to my poor ears,--the sound of a friendly voice!
For so many weary years I have never heard one word from human lips
which I could understand or make answer to. And now,--what is it you
wish to know, my dear boy?”

“Well, since you've lived here so long, surely you hadn't ought to get
caught in such a nasty pickle; unless it was through accident?”

“It was partly accidental. One that would have cost me dearly had not
you come to my aid so opportunely. And yet,--only for one thing, I could
scarcely have regretted vanishing for ever down that suck!”

His voice choked, his head bowed, his hands came together in a nervous
grip, all betokening unusual agitation. Even Waldo was just a bit awed,
and the stranger was first to break that silence with words.

“How did the mishap come about, is it, young gentleman?” he said, a wan
smile creeping into his face, and relaxing those tensely drawn muscles
once more. “While I was trying to replenish my stock of provisions, and
after this fashion, good friends.

“I was fishing from a small canoe, and as the bait was not taken well,
I must have fallen into a day dream, thinking of--no matter, now. And
during that dreaming, the breeze must have blown me well out into the
lake, for when I was roused up by a sharp jerk at my line, I found
myself near its middle, without knowing just how I came there.

“I have no idea what sort of fish had taken my bait,--there are many
enormous ones in the lake,--but it proved far too powerful for me
to manage, and dragged the canoe swiftly through the water, heading
directly for the outlet, yonder.”

“Why didn't you let it go free, then?”

“The line was fastened to the prow, and I could not loosen it in time. I
drew my knife,--one of flint, but keen enough to serve,--only to have
it jerked out of my hand and into the water. Then, just as the fish must
have plunged into the suck, I abandoned my canoe, jumping overboard.”

“That's just what I was wondering about,” declared Waldo, with a
vigorous nod of his head. “Yet we found you--there?”

“Because I am a wretchedly poor swimmer. I managed to reach a drift
which had not yet fairly entered the whirl, but I could do nothing more
towards saving myself. Then--you can guess the rest, gentlemen.”

“And the canoe?” demanded Waldo, content only when all points were made
manifest.

“I saw it dragged down the centre of the suck,” with an involuntary
shiver. “The fish must have plunged into the underground river, whether
willingly or not I can only surmise. But all the while I was drifting
yonder, around and around, with each circuit drawing closer to the
awful end, I could not help picturing to myself how the canoe must have
plunged down, and down, and--burr-r-r!”

A shuddering shiver which was more eloquent than words; but Waldo was
not yet wholly content, finding an absorbing interest in that particular
subject.

“You call it a river: how do you know it's a river?”

“Of course, I can only guess at the facts, my dear boy,” the stranger
made reply, smiling once more, and, with an almost timid gesture,
extending one hairy paw to lightly touch and gently stroke the arm
nearest him.

Bruno turned away abruptly, for that gesture, so simple in itself, yet
so full of pathos to one who bore in mind those long years of solitary
exile, brought a moisture to his big brown eyes of which, boy-like, he
felt ashamed.

Professor Featherwit likewise took note, and with greater presence of
mind came to the rescue, lightly resting a hand upon the stranger's
half-bare shoulder while addressing his words to the youngster.

A tremulous sigh escaped those bearded lips, and their owner drew closer
to the wiry little aeronaut, plainly drawing great comfort from that
mere contact. And with like ease uncle Phaeton lifted one of those hairy
arms to rest it over his own shoulders, speaking briskly the while.

“There is only one way of demonstrating the truth more clearly,
my youthful inquisitor, and that is by sending you on a voyage of
exploration. Are you willing to make the attempt, Waldo?”

“Not this evening; some other evening,--maybe!” drawing back a bit, with
a shake of his curly pate to match. “But, I say, uncle Phaeton--”

“Allow me to complete my say, first, dear boy,” with a bland smile.
“That is easily done, though, for it merely consists of this: yonder
sink, or whirlpool, is certainly the method this lake has of relieving
itself of all surplus water. Everything points to a subterranean river
which connects this lake with the Pacific Ocean.”

“Wonder how long I'd have to hold my breath to make the trip?”



CHAPTER XI. ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR THE PROFESSOR.

The stranger laughed aloud at this, then seemed surprised that aught
of mirth could be awakened where grief and despair had so long reigned
supreme.

“You will come with me to--to my den, gentlemen?” he asked, still
nervous, and plainly loath to do aught which indicated a return to his
recent dreary method of living.

“Is the distance great?” asked Professor Featherwit, with a glance
towards the aeromotor, then flashing his gaze further, as though to
guard against possible harm coming to that valuable piece of property.

More than ever to be guarded now, since the words spoken by this
exile. Better death in yonder mighty whirlpool than a half-score years'
imprisonment here!

Not so very far, he was assured, while it would be comparatively easy to
float the air-ship above the trees, there of no extraordinary growth.

At the same time this assurance was given, the stranger could not mask
his uneasiness of mind, and it was really pitiful to see one so strong
in body and limb, so weak otherwise.

But uncle Phaeton was a fairly keen judge of human nature, and possessed
no small degree of tact. Divining the real cause of that dread, he took
the easiest method of allaying it, speaking briskly as he moved across
to the aerostat.

“Bear the gentleman company, my lads, while I manage the ship. You will
know what signals to make, and I can contrive the rest.”

Again the recluse laughed, but now it was through pure joy, such as he
had not experienced for long years gone by. He was not to be deserted
by his rescuers from the whirlpool, and that was comfort enough for the
moment.

Thanks to that guidance, but little time was cut to waste, Professor
Featherwit taking the flying-machine away from the shore of the lake,
floating slowly above the tree-tops, guiding his movements by those
below, finally effecting a safe landing in a miniature glade, at no
great distance from the “den” alluded to by their new-found friend.

“It will be perfectly safe here,” the exile hastened to give assurance,
as that landing was made. “Then, too, this is the only spot nigh at
hand from which a hasty ascent could well be made, even with such an
admirable machine as yours. Ah, me!” with a long breath which lacked but
little of being a sigh, as he keenly, eagerly examined the aerostat. “A
marvel! Who would have dared predict such another, only a dozen years
ago? I thought we had drawn very close to perfection while I was in the
profession, but this,--marvellous!”

Both words and manner gave the keen-witted professor a clew to one
mystery, and he quickly spoke:

“Then you were familiar with aerostatics, sir? Your name is--”

“Edgecombe,--Cooper Edgecombe.”

“What?” with undisguised surprise in face as in voice. “Professor
Edgecombe, the celebrated balloonist who was lost so long ago?”

“Ay! lost here in this thrice accursed wilderness!” passionately cried
the exile; then, as though abashed by his own outburst, he turned away,
pausing again only when at the entrance to his dreary refuge of many
years.

“Give the poor fellow his own way until he has had time to rally, boys,”
 muttered uncle Phaeton, in lowered tones, before following that lead. “I
can understand it better, now, and this is--still is the terra incognita
of which I have dreamed so long!”

That refuge proved to be a large, fairly dry cavern, the entrance to
which was admirably masked by vines and creepers, while the stony soil
just there retained no trace of footprints to tell dangerous tales.

Mr. Edgecombe vanished, but not for long. Then, showing a light, formed
of fat and twisted wick in a hollowed bit of hardwood, he begged his
rescuers to enter.

No second invitation was needed, for even the professor felt a powerful
curiosity to learn what method had been followed by this enforced exile;
how he had managed to live for so many weary years.

With only that smoky lamp to shed light around the place, critical
investigation was a matter of time and painstaking, although a general
idea of the cavern was readily formed.

High overhead arched the rocky roof, blackened by smoke, and looking
more gloomy than nature had intended. The side walls were likewise
irregular, now showing tiny niches and nooks, then jutting out to form
awkward points and elbows, which were but partially disguised by such
articles of wear and daily use as the exile had collected during the
years gone by, or since his occupancy first began.

So much the professor took in with his initial glances, but then he left
Waldo and his brother to look more closely, himself giving thought to
the being whom they had so happily saved from the whirlpool.

“Professor Edgecombe!” he again exclaimed, grasping those roughened
hands to press them cordially. “I ought to have recognised you at sight,
no doubt, since I have watched your ascents time and time again.”

The exile smiled faintly, shaking his head and giving another sigh.

“Ah, me! 'twas vastly different, then. I only marvel that you should
give me credit when I lay claim to that name, so long--it has long faded
from the public's memory, sir.”

But uncle Phaeton shook his head, decidedly.

“No, no, I assure you, my friend; far from it. Whenever the topic is
brought to the front; whenever aerostatics are discussed, your name and
fame are sure to play a prominent part. And yet,--you disappeared so
long ago, never being heard of after--”

“After sailing away upon the storm for which I had waited and prayed,
for so many weary, heart-sick months!”

“So the rumour ran, but we all believed that must be an exaggeration,
and not for a long time was all hope abandoned. Then, more hearts than
one felt sore and sad at thoughts of your untimely fate.”

“A fate infinitely worse than ordinary death such as was credited me,”
 huskily muttered the exile. “Ten years,--and ever since I have been
here, helpless to extricate myself, doomed to a living death, which none
other can ever fully realise! Doomed to--to--”

His voice choked, and he turned away to hide his emotions.

Professor Featherwit thoroughly appreciated the interruption which came
through Waldo's lips just at that moment.

“Oh, I say,--uncle Phaeton!”

“What is it, lad? Don't meddle with what doesn't--”

“Looking can't hurt, can it? And to think people ever got along with
such things as these!”

Waldo was squared before sundry articles depending from the side
wall, and as the professor drew closer, he, too, displayed a degree of
interest which was really remarkable.

A gaily colored tunic of thickly quilted cotton was hanging beside an
oddly shaped war club, the heavier end of which was armed with blades of
stone which gleamed and sparkled even in that dim light. And attached to
this weapon was another, hardly less curious: a knife formed of copper,
with heft and blade all from one piece of metal.

“Here is the rest of the outfit,” said Edgecombe, holding forth a bow
and several feathered arrows with obsidian heads.

Professor Featherwit gave a low, eager cry as he handled the various
articles, both face and manner betraying intense delight, which found
partial vent in words a little later.

“Wonderful! Marvellous! Superb! I envy you, sir; I can't help but envy
your possession of so magnificent--and so well-preserved, too! That is
the marvel of marvels!”

“Well, to be sure, I haven't used them very much. The bow and arrows I
could manage fairly well, after busy practice. They have saved me from
more than one hungry night. But as for the rest--”

“You might have worn the--Is it a ghost-dance shirt, though?”
 hesitatingly asked Waldo, gingerly fingering the wadded tunic.

“Waldo, I'm ashamed of you, boy!” almost harshly reproved the professor.
“Ghost-dance shirt, indeed! And this one of the most complete--the only
perfectly preserved specimen of the ancient Aztec--pray, my good friend,
where did you discover them? Surely there can be no burial mounds so far
above the latitude where that unfortunate race lived and died?”

Mr. Edgecombe shook his head, with a puzzled look, then made reply:

“No, sir. I took these all from an Indian I was forced to kill in order
to save my own life. I never thought--You are ill, sir?”

“Bless my soul!” ejaculated the professor, falling back a pace or two,
then sitting down with greater force than grace, all the while gazing
upon those weapons like one in a daze. “Found them--Indian--killed him
in order to--bless my soul!”

Then, with marvellous activity for one of his age, the professor
recovered his footing, mumbling something about tripping a heel, then
resumed his examination of the curiosities as though he had care for
naught beside.

Cooper Edgecombe turned away, and the professor improved the opportunity
by muttering to the brothers:

“Careful, lads. Give the poor fellow his own way in all things, for he
is--he surely must be--eh?”

Forefinger covertly tapped forehead, for there was no time granted for
further explanations. Edgecombe turned again, speaking in hard, even
strained tones:

“Fifteen years ago this month, on the 27th, to be exact, a balloon with
two passengers was carried away on a terrific gale of wind which blew
from the southeast. This happened in Washington Territory. Can you tell
me--has anything ever been heard of either balloon or its inmates?”

Professor Featherwit shook his head in negation before saying:

“Not to my knowledge, though doubtless the prints of the day--”

Cooper Edgecombe shook both head and hand with strange impatience.

“No, no. I know they were never heard from up to ten years ago, but
since then--I am a fool to even dream of such a thing, and yet,--only
for that faint hope I would have gone mad long ago!”

Indeed, he looked little less than insane as it was.



CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF A BROKEN LIFE.

This was the idea that occurred to both uncle and nephews, but they had
seen and heard enough to excuse all that, and Professor Featherwit spoke
again, in mildly curious tones:

“Sorry I am unable to give you better tidings, my good friend, but, so
far as my knowledge extends, nothing has come to light of recent years.
And--if not a leading question--were those passengers friends of your
own?”

“Only--merely my--my wife and little daughter,” came the totally
unexpected reply, followed by a forced laugh which sounded anything but
mirthful.

Uncle Phaeton, intensely chagrined, hastened to apologise for his
luckless break, but Cooper Edgecombe cut him short, asking that the
matter be let drop for the time being.

“I will talk; I feel that I must tell you all, or lose what few wits
I have left,” he declared, huskily. “But not right now. It is growing
late. You must be hungry. I have no very extensive larder, but with my
little will go the gratitude of a man who--”

His voice choked, and he left the sentence unfinished, hurrying away to
prepare such a meal as his limited means would permit.

While Edgecombe was kindling a fire in one corner of the cavern, opening
a pile of ashes to extract the few carefully cherished coals by means
of which the wood was to be fired, uncle and one nephew left the den to
look after the flying-machine and contents.

Bruno remained behind, in obedience to a hint from the professor, lest
the exile should dread desertion, after all.

“Take these in and open them, Waldo,” said the professor, selecting
several cans from the stock in the locker. “Poor fellow! 'Twill be like
a foretaste of civilisation, just to see and smell, much less taste, the
fruit.”

“Even if he has turned looney, eh, uncle Phaeton?”

“Careful, boy! I hardly think he is just that far gone; but, even if
so, what marvel? Think of all he must have suffered during so many
long, dreary years! and--his wife and child! I wonder--I do wonder if he
really killed--but that is incredible, simply and utterly incredible! An
Aztec--here--alive!”

“Dead, uncle Phaeton,” corrected Waldo. “Killed the redskin, he said,
and I really reckon he meant it. Why not, pray?”

“But--an Aztec, boy!” exclaimed the bewildered savant, unable to pass
that point. “The tunic of quilted cotton, the escaupil! The maquahuitl,
with its blades of grass! The bow and arrows which--all, all surely of
Aztecan manufacture, yet seemingly fresh and serviceable as though in
use but a month ago! And the race extinct for centuries!”

“Well, unless he's a howling liar from 'way up the crick, he extincted
one of 'em,” cheerfully commented Waldo, bearing his canned fruit to the
cavern.

Professor Featherwit followed shortly after, finding the exile busy
preparing food, looking and acting far more naturally than he had since
his rescue from the whirlpool. And then, until the evening meal was
announced, uncle Phaeton hovered near those amazing curiosities, now
gazing like one in a waking dream, then gingerly fingering each article
in turn, as though hoping to find a solution for his enigma through the
sense of touch.

Taken all in all, that was far from a pleasant or enjoyable meal. A
sense of restraint rested upon each one of that little company, and not
one succeeded in fairly breaking it away, though each tried in turn.

Despite the struggle made by the exile to hold all emotions well under
subjection, Cooper Edgecombe failed to hide his almost childish delight
at sight and taste of those canned goods, and it did not require much
urging on the part of his rescuers to ensure his partaking freely.

But the cap-sheaf came when uncle Phaeton, true to his habit of long
years, after eating, produced pipe and pouch, the fragrant tobacco
catching the exile's nostrils and drawing a low, tremulous cry from his
lips.

No need to ask what was the matter, for that eager gaze, those quivering
fingers, were enough. And just as though this had been his express
purpose, the professor passed the pipe over, quietly speaking:

“Perhaps you would like a little smoke after your supper, my good
friend? Oblige me by--”

“May I? Oh, sir, may I--really taste--oh, oh, oh!”

Bruno struck a match and steadied the pipe until the tobacco was fairly
ignited, then drew back and left the exile to himself for the time
being. And, as covert glances told them, never before had their eyes
rested upon mortal being so intensely happy as was the long-lost
aeronaut then and there.

At a sign from the professor, Bruno and Waldo silently arose and left
the cavern, bearing their guardian company to where the air-ship was
resting. And there they busied themselves with making preparations for
the night, which was just settling over that portion of the earth.

Presently Cooper Edgecombe appeared, the empty pipe in hand, held as
one might caress an inestimable treasure, a dreamy, almost blissful
expression upon his sun-browned face.

“I thank you, sir, more than tongue can tell,” he said, quietly, as he
restored the pipe to its owner. “If you could only realise what I have
suffered through this deprivation! I, an inveterate smoker; yet suddenly
deprived of it, and so kept for ten long years! If I had had a pipe and
tobacco, I believe--but enough.”

“I can sympathise with you, at least in part, my friend. Will you have
another smoke, by the way?”

“No, no, not now; I feel blessed for the moment, and more might be worse
than none, after so long deprivation. And--may I talk openly to you,
dear, kind friends? May I tell you--am I selfish in wishing to trouble
you thus? Ten years, remember, and not a soul to speak with!”

He laughed, but it was a sorry mirth; and not caring to trust his tongue
just then, uncle Phaeton nodded his head emphatically while filling his
pipe for himself. But Waldo never lacked for words, and spoke out:

“That's all right, sir; we can listen as long as you can chin-chin. Tell
us all about--well, what's the matter with that big Injun?”

“Quiet, Waldo. Say what best pleases you, my friend. You can be sure of
one thing,--sympathetic listeners, if nothing better.”

With a curious shiver, as though afflicted with a sudden chill,
Edgecombe turned partly away, figure drawn rigidly erect, hands tightly
clasped behind his back. A brief silence, then he spoke in tones of
forced composure.

“A balloon was the best, in my day, and I was proud of my profession,
although even then I was dreaming of better things--of something akin
to this marvellous creation of yours, sir,” casting a fleeting glance
at the air-ship, then at the face of its builder, afterward resuming his
former attitude.

“Let that pass, though. I wanted to tell you how I met with my awful
loss; how I came to be out here in this modern hell!

“I had a wife, a daughter, each of whom felt almost as powerful an
interest in aerostatics as I did myself. And one day--but, wait!

“I had an enemy, too; one who had, years before, sought to win my
love for his own; in vain, the cur! And that day--we were out here in
Washington Territory, living in comparative solitude that I might the
better study out the theory I was slowly shaping in my brain.

“The day was beautiful, but almost oppressively warm, and, as they
so frequently wished, I let my dear ones up in the balloon, securely
fastening it below. And then--God forgive me!--I went back to town for
something; I forget just what, now.

“A sudden storm came up. I hurried homeward; home to me was wherever
my dear ones chanced to be; but I was just too late! That devil of all
devils was ahead of me, and I saw him--merciful God! I saw him--cut the
ropes and let the balloon dart away upon that awful gale!”

His voice choked, and for a few minutes silence reigned. Knowing how
vain must be any attempt to offer consolation, the trio of air-voyagers
said nothing, and presently Cooper Edgecombe spoke.

“I killed the demon. I nearly tore him limb from limb; I would have done
just that, only for those who came hurrying after me from town, knowing
that I might need help in bringing my balloon to earth in safety. They
dragged me away, but 'twas too late to cheat my miserable vengeance.
That hound was dead, but--my darlings were gone, for ever!”

Another pause, then quieter, more coherent speech.

“God alone knows whither my wife and child were taken. The general drift
was in this direction, but how far they were carried, or how long they
may have lived, I can only guess; enough that, despite all my inquiries,
made far and wide in every direction, I never heard aught of either
balloon or passengers!

“After that, I had but one object in life: to follow along the track of
that storm, and either find my loved ones, or--or some clew which should
for ever solve my awful doubts! And for two long years or more I fought
to pierce these horrid fastnesses,--all in vain. No mortal man could
succeed, even when urged on by such a motive as mine.

“Then I determined upon another course. I worked and slaved until I
could procure another balloon, as nearly like the one I lost as might
be constructed. Then I watched and waited for just such another storm
as the one upon whose wings my darlings were borne away, meaning to take
the same course, and so find--”

“Why, man, dear, you must have been insane!” impulsively cried the
professor, unable longer to control his tongue.

“Perhaps I was; little wonder if so,” admitted Edgecombe, turning that
way, with a wan smile lighting up his visage. “I could no longer reason.
I could only act. I had but that one grim hope, to eventually discover
what time and exposure to the weather might have left of my lost loves.

“Then, after so long waiting, the storm came, blowing in the same
direction as that other. I cut my balloon loose, and let it drift. I
looked and waited, hoping, longing, yet--failing! I was wrecked, here in
this wilderness. My balloon was carried away. I failed to find--aught!”

Cooper Edgecombe turned towards the air-ship, with a sigh of regret.

“If one had something like this then, I might have found them,--even
alive! But now--too late--eternally too late!”



CHAPTER XIII. THE LOST CITY OF THE AZTECS.

Uncle Phaeton was more than willing to do the honours of his pet
invention, and this afforded a most happy diversion, although the
deepening twilight hindered any very extensive examination.

Cooper Edgecombe showed himself in a vastly different light while thus
engaged, his shrewd questions, his apt comments, quite effectually
removing the far from agreeable doubts born of his earlier words and
demeanour.

“Well, if he's looney, it's only on some points, not as the whole
porker, anyway,” confidentially asserted Waldo, when an opportunity
offered. “Coax him to tell how he knocked the redskin out, uncle
Phaeton.”

Little need of recalling that perplexing incident to the worthy savant,
for, try as he might, Featherwit could not keep from brooding over that
wondrous collection of relics pertaining to a long-since extinct people.
Of course, the last one had perished ages ago; and yet--and yet--

Through his half-bewildered brain flashed the accounts given by
the coast tribes, members of which he had so frequently interviewed
concerning this unknown land, one and all of whom had more or less to
say in regard to a strange people, terrible fighters, mighty hunters,
one burning glance from whose eyes carried death and decay unto all who
were foolhardy enough even to attempt to pass those mighty barriers,
built up by a beneficent nature. Only for that nearly impassable wall,
the entire earth would be overrun and dominated by these monsters in
human guise.

Then, after the air-ship was cared for to the best of his ability, and
the night-guard set in place so that an alarm might give warning of any
illegal intrusion, the little party returned to the cavern home of the
exile where, after another refusal on his part, the professor filled and
lighted his beloved pipe.

Almost in spite of himself Featherwit was drawn towards those marvellous
articles depending from the wall, and, as he gazed in silent marvel,
Cooper Edgecombe drew nigh, with still other articles to complete the
collection.

“You may possibly find something of interest in these, too, dear sir,
although I have given them rather rough usage. This formed a rather
comfortable cap, and--”

“A helmet! And sandals! A sash which is--yes! worn about the waist,
mainly to support weapons, and termed a maxtlatl, which--and
all sufficiently well preserved to be readily recognised as
genuine--unless--Surely I am dreaming!”

If not precisely that, the worthy professor assuredly was almost beside
himself while examining these articles of warrior's wear, one by one,
knowing that neither eyes nor memory were at fault, yet still unable to
believe those very senses.

Up to this, Cooper Edgecombe had felt but a passing interest in
the matter, forming as it did but a single incident in a more than
ordinarily eventful life; but now he began to divine at least a portion
of the truth, and his face was lighted up with unusual animation, when
Phaeton Featherwit turned that way, to almost sharply demand:

“Where did you gain possession of these weapons and garments, sir? And
how,--from whom?”

“I took them from an Indian, nearly two years ago. He caught me off my
guard, and, when I saw that I could neither hide nor flee, I fought for
my life,” explained the exile; then giving a short, bitter laugh, to
add: “Strange, is it not? Although I had long since grown weary of
existence such as this, I fought for it; I turned wild beast, as it
were! Then, after all was over, I took these things, more because I
feared his comrades might suspect--”

“His comrades?” echoed the professor. “More than the one, then? You
killed him, but--there were others, still?”

“Many of them; far too many for any one man to withstand,” earnestly
declared the exile. “I made all haste in bearing the redskin here,
obliterating all signs as quickly as possible; yet for days and nights I
cowered here in utter darkness, each minute expecting an attack from too
powerful a force for standing against.”

Uncle Phaeton rubbed his hands briskly, shifting his weight hurriedly
from one foot to its mate, then back again, the very personification of
eager interest and growing conviction.

“More of them? A strong force? Armed,--and garbed as of old? The
clothing, the footwear, and, above all else, the weapons, purely
Aztecan? And here, only two short years ago?”

“Sadly long and hideously dreary years I have found them, sir,” the
exile said, in dejected tones.

The professor burst into a shrill, excited laugh, which sounded almost
hysterical, and, not a little to the amazement of his nephews, broke
into a regular dance, jigging it right merrily, hands on hips, head
perked, and chin in air, at the same time striving to carry the tune in
his far from melodious voice.

After all, perhaps no better method could have been taken to work off
his almost hysterical excitement, and presently he paused, panting and
heated, chuckling after an abashed fashion as he encountered the eyes of
his nephews.

“Not a word, my dear boys,” he hastened to plead. “I had to do something
or--or explode! I feel better, now. I can behave myself, I hope. I am
calm, cool, and composed as--the genuine Aztecs! And we are the ones to
discover that--oh, I forgot!”

For Waldo was fairly exploding with mirth, while Bruno smiled, and even
the exile appeared to be amused to a certain extent at his expense.

Little by little, the worthy savant calmed down, and then, almost
forcing the exile to indulge in another delicious smoke, he led up to
the subject in which his interest was fairly intense.

Cooper Edgecombe was willing enough to tell all that lay in his power,
although he was only beginning to realise how much that might mean to
the world at large, judging by the actions of the professor.

According to his account, the great lake, or drainage reservoir of the
Olympics, was a sort of semi-yearly rendezvous for a warlike tribe of
red men, where they congregated for the purpose of catching and drying
vast quantities of fish, doubtless to be used during the winter.

“As a general thing they pitch their camp on the other side, over
towards the northeast; but small parties are pretty sure to rove far and
wide, coming around this way quite as often as not.”

“And their garb,--the weapons they bore?” asked the professor.

Edgecombe motioned towards those articles in which such a lively
interest had been awakened, then said that, while few of the red men who
had come beneath his near observation had been so elaborately equipped,
he had taken notice of similar weapons and garments, with additions
which he strove hard to describe with accuracy.

Nearly every sentence which crossed his lips served to confirm the
marvellous truth which had so dazzlingly burst upon the professor's
eager brain, and with a glib tongue he named each weapon, each garment,
as accurately as ever set down in ancient history, not a little to the
wide-eyed amazement of Waldo Gillespie.

“Worse than those blessed 'sour-us' and cousins,” he confided to his
brother, in a whisper. “Reckon it's all right, Bruno? Uncle isn't--eh?”

But uncle Phaeton paid them no attention, so deeply was he stirred
by this wondrous revelation. He felt that he was upon the verge of a
discovery which would startle the wide world as no recent announcement
had been able to do, unless--but it surely must be correct!

And then, when Cooper Edgecombe finished all he could tell concerning
those queerly armed and gaudily garbed red men, the professor let loose
his tongue, telling what glorious hopes and dazzling anticipations were
now within him.

“For hundreds upon hundreds of years there have been wild, weird legends
about the Lost City, but that merely meant a mass of wondrous ruins,
long since overwhelmed by shifting sands, somewhere in the heart of the
great American desert, so-called.

“By some it was claimed that this ancient city owed its primal existence
to a fragment of the Aztecs, driven from their native quarters in Old
Mexico. By others 'twas attributed unto one of the fabulous 'Lost Tribes
of Israel,' but even the most enthusiastic never for one moment dreamed
of--this!”

“Except yourself, uncle Phaeton,” cut in Waldo, with a subdued grin.
“This must be one of the marvels you calculated on discovering, thanks
to the flying-machine, eh?”

“Nay, my boy; I never let my imagination soar half so high as all that,”
 quickly answered the professor. “But now--now I feel confident that just
such a discovery lies before us, and with the dawn of a new day we will
ascend and look for the glorious 'Lost City of the Aztecs!'”

Again the savant sprang to his feet, wildly gesticulating as he strode
to and fro, striving to thus work off some of the intense excitement
which had taken full possession. And words fell rapidly from his lips
the while, only a portion of which need be placed upon record in this
connection, however.

“A fico for the paltry lost cities of musty tradition, now! They may
sleep beneath the sand-storms of countless years, but this--I would
gladly give one of my eyes for the certainty that its mate might gaze
upon such a wondrous spectacle as--Oh, if it might only prove true! If
I might only discover such a stupendous treasure! Aztecs! And in the
present day! Alive--armed and garbed as of yore! Amazing! Incredible!
Astounding beyond the wildest dreams of a confirmed--”

With startling swiftness uncle Phaeton wheeled to confront the exile,
gripping his arm with fierce vigour, as he shrilly demanded:

“Opium--are you an eater of drugs, Cooper Edgecombe?”

Even as the words crossed his lips, the professor realised how
preposterous they must sound, but the exile shook his head, earnestly.

“I never ate drugs in that shape, sir. Even if I had been addicted to
morphine and the like, how could I indulge the appetite here, in these
gloomy, lonely wilds?”

“I beg your pardon, sir; most humbly I implore your forgiveness. I have
but one excuse--this wondrous--Good night! I'm going to bed before I add
to my new reputation as--a blessed idiot, no less!”



CHAPTER XIV. A MARVELLOUS VISION.

But the night was considerably older ere any one of that quartette lost
himself in slumber, for all had been too thoroughly wrought up by the
exciting events of the past day for sleep to claim an easy subject.

By common consent, however, that one particular subject was barred for
the present, and then, sitting in a cosy group about the glowing fire
there in the cavern, the recently formed friends talked and chatted,
asking and answering questions almost past counting.

Little wonder that such should be the case, so far as Cooper Edgecombe
was concerned, since he had been lost to the busy world and its many
changes for a long decade.

Then, too, his own dreary existence held a strange charm for the
air-voyagers, and the exile grew wonderfully cheerful and bright-eyed
as he in part depicted his struggles to sustain life against such heavy
odds, and still strove to keep alive that one hope,--that even yet he
might be able to discover a clew to his loved and lost ones.

“Not alive; I have long since abandoned that faint hope. But if I might
only find something to make sure, something that I could pray over, then
bury where my heart could hover above--”

“You are still alive, good friend, yet you have spent long years out
here in the wilderness,” gently suggested the professor.

Edgecombe flinched, as one might when a rude hand touches a still raw
wound.

“But they, my wife, my baby girl,--they could never have lived as I have
existed. They surely must have perished; if not at once, then when the
first cruel storms of hideous winter came howling down from the far
north!”

“Unless they were found and rescued by--who knows, my good sir?” forcing
a cheerful smile, which, unfortunately, was only surface-born, as the
exile lifted his head with a start and a gasping ejaculation. “Since it
seems fairly well proven that this supposedly unknown land is actually
inhabited, why may your loved ones not have been rescued?”

“The Indians? You mean by the Aztecs, sir?”

“If Aztecans they should really prove; why not?”

“But, surely I have heard--sacrifices?” huskily breathed the greatly
agitated man, while the professor, realising how he was making a bad
matter worse, brazenly falsified the records, declaring that no human
sacrifices had ever stained the record of that noble, honourable,
gallant race; and then changed the subject as quickly as might be.

Nevertheless, there was one good effect following that talk. Cooper
Edgecombe had dreaded nothing so much as the fear of being left behind
by these, the first white people he had seen for what seemed more than
an ordinary lifetime; but now, when the professor hinted at a longing to
take a spin through ether, for the purpose of winning a wider view,
he eagerly seconded that idea, even while realising that it would be
difficult to take him along with the rest.

Still, nothing was definitely settled that evening, and at a fairly
respectable hour before the turn of night, the air-voyagers were wrapped
in their blankets and soundly slumbering.

Not so the exile. Sleep was far from his brain, and while he really
knew that danger could hardly menace that wondrous bit of ingenious
mechanism, he watched it throughout that long night, ready to risk his
own life in its defence should the occasion arise.

Why not, since his whole future depended upon the aeromotor? By its aid
he hoped to reach civilization once more; and in spite of the great
loss which had wrecked his life, he was thrilled to the centre by that
glorious prospect. Here he was dead while breathing; there he would at
least be in touch with his fellow men once more!

An early meal was prepared by the exile, and in readiness when his trio
of guests awakened to the new day; and then, while busily discussing
the really appetising viands placed before them, the next move was fully
determined upon.

Not a little to his secret delight, the professor heard Edgecombe broach
the subject of further explorations, and seeing that his excitement had
passed away in goodly measure during the silent watches of the night, he
talked with greater freedom.

“Of course we'll keep in touch with you, here, friend, and take no
decisive move without your knowledge and consent. Our fate shall be
yours, and your fate shall be ours. Only--I would dearly love to catch a
glimpse of--If there should actually be a Lost City in existence!”

“If there is, as there surely must be one of some description, judging
from the number of red men I have seen collecting here at the lake,”
 observed the exile, “you certainly ought to make the discovery with the
aid of your air-ship. You can ascend at will, of course, sir?”

Nothing loath, the professor spoke of his pet and its wondrous
capabilities, and then all hands left the cavern for the outer air, to
prepare for action.

As a further assurance, uncle Phaeton begged Edgecombe to enter the
aerostat, then skilfully caused the vessel to float upward into clear
space, sailing out over the lake even to the whirlpool itself before
turning, his passenger eagerly watching every move and touch of hand,
asking questions which proved him both shrewd and ingenious, from a
mechanical point of view.

Returning to their starting-point, Edgecombe sprang lightly to earth to
make way for the brothers, face ruddy and eyes aglow as he again begged
them all to keep watch for aught which might solve the mystery yet
surrounding the fate of his loved ones.

The promise was given, together with an earnest assurance that they
would soon return; then the parting was cut as short as might be, all
feeling that such a course was wisest and kindest, after all.

For an hour or more the air-ship sped on, high in air, its inmates
viewing the various and varying landmarks beneath and beyond them, all
marvelling at the fact that such an immense scope of country should for
so long be left in its native virginity, especially where all are so
land-hungry.

Then, as nothing of especial interest was brought to their notice, uncle
Phaeton quite naturally reverted to that suit of Aztecan armour, and
the glorious possibilities which the words of the exile had opened up to
them as explorers.

Bruno listened with unfeigned interest, but not so his more mercurial
brother, who took advantage of an opening left by the professor, to
bluntly interject:

“What mighty good, even if you should find it all, uncle Phaeton? You
couldn't pick it up and tote it away, to start a dime museum with. And,
as for my part,--I'll tell you what! If we could only find something
like Aladdin's cave, now!”

“Growing miserly in your old age, are you, lad?” mocked his uncle.

“No; I don't mean just that. His trees were hung with riches, but mine
should be--crammed and crowded full of plum pudding, fruit cake, angel
food, mince pies, and the like! Yes, and there should be fountains of
lemonade! And mountains of ice-cream! And sandbars of caramels, and
chocolate drops, and trilbies, and--well, now, what's the matter with
you fellows, anyway?”

He spoke with boyish indignation at that laughing outbreak, but the
kindly professor quickly managed to smooth the matter over, although not
before Waldo had promised Bruno a sound thumping the first time they set
foot upon land.

Until past the noon hour that pleasant voyage lasted, without any
remarkable discovery being made, the trio munching a cold lunch at their
ease, rather than take the trouble to effect a landing.

But then, not very long after the sun had begun his downward course,
there came a change which caused Featherwit's blood to leap through his
veins far more rapidly than usual, for yonder, still a number of miles
away, there was gradually opening to view a hill-surrounded valley of
considerable dimension, certain portions of which betrayed signs
of cultivation, or at least of vegetation different from aught the
explorers had as yet come across since entering that land of wonders.

Almost unwittingly Professor Featherwit sent the air-ship higher, even
as it sped onward at quickened pace, his face as pale as his eyes were
glittering, intense anticipation holding him spellbound for the time
being. And then--the wondrous truth!

“Behold!” he cried, shrilly, pointing as he spoke.

“Houses yonder! Cultivated fields, and--see! human beings in motion, who
are--”

“Kicking up a great old bobbery, just as though they'd sighted us, and
wanted to know--I say, uncle Phaeton, how would it feel to get punched
full of holes by a parcel of bow-arrows?”

With a quick motion the air-ship was turned, darting lower and off at
a sharp angle to its former course, for the professor likewise saw what
had attracted the notice of his younger nephew.

Scattered here and there throughout that secluded valley were human
beings, nearly all of whom had sprung into sudden motion, doubtless
amazed or frightened by the appearance of that oddly shaped air-demon.

Brief though that view had been, it was sufficiently long to show the
professor houses of solid and substantial shape, cultivated plots, human
beings, and a little river whose clear waters sparkled and flashed in
the sunlight.

It was very hard to cut that view so short, but the professor had not
lost all prudence, and he knew that danger to both vessel and passengers
might follow a nearer intrusion upon the privacy of yonder armed people.
Yet his face was fairly glowing with glad exultation as he brought the
aerostat to a lower strata of air, shutting off all view from yonder
valley, as it lay amid its encircling hills.

“Hurrah!” he cried, snatching off his cap and waving it
enthusiastically, as the air-ship floated onward at ease. “At last!
Found--we've discovered it at last! And all is true,--all is true!”

“Found what, uncle Phaeton?” asked Waldo, a bit doubtfully.

“The Lost City of the Aztecs, of course! Oh, glad day, glad day!”

“Unless--what if it should prove to be only a--a mirage, uncle Phaeton?”
 almost timidly ventured Bruno, a moment later.



CHAPTER XV. ASTOUNDING, YET TRUE.

The professor gave a great start at this almost reluctant suggestion,
shrinking back with a look which fell not far short of being horrified.
But then he rallied, forcing a laugh before speaking.

“No, no, Bruno. All conditions are lacking to form the mirage of the
desert. And, too; everything was so distinct and clearly outlined that
one could--”

“Fairly feel those blessed bow-arrows tickling a fellow in the short
ribs,” vigorously declared the younger Gillespie. “Not but that--I say,
uncle Phaeton?”

“What is it now, Waldo?”

“Reckon they're like any other people? Got boys and--and girls among
'em, I wonder?”

“I daresay, yes, why not?” answered Featherwit, scarcely realising
what words were being shaped by his lips, while Bruno broke into a
brief-lived laugh, more at that half-sheepish expression than at the
query itself.

“Both boys and girls galore, I expect, Kid; but you needn't borrow
trouble on either score. You can outrun the lads, while as for the
fairer sex,--well, they'll take precious good care to keep well beyond
your reach,--especially if you wear such another fascinating grin as--”

“Oh, you go to thunder, Bruno Gillespie!”

Through all this interchange the air-ship was maintaining a wide sweep,
drawing nearer the forest beneath, if only to keep hidden from the eyes
of the strange people in yonder deep valley. Yet the gaze of Phaeton
Featherwit as a rule kept turned towards that particular point, his eyes
on fire, his lips twitching, his whole demeanour that of one who feels a
discovery of tremendous importance lies just before him.

“Are we going to land, uncle Phaeton?” queried Bruno, taking note of
that preoccupation, which might easily prove dangerous under existing
circumstances.

That question served to recall the professor to more material points,
and, after a keen, sweeping look around, he nodded assent.

“Yes, as soon as I can discover or secure a fair chance. I wish to see
more--I must secure a fairer view of the--of yonder place.”

“Will it not be too dangerous, though? Not for us, especially, uncle,
but for the aerostat? Even if these be not the people you imagine--”

“They are past all doubt a remnant of the ancient Aztecs. Yonder lies
the true Lost City, and we are--oh, try to comprehend all that statement
means, my lads! Picture to yourselves what boundless fame and unlimited
credit awaits our report to the outer world! The benighted world! The
besotted world! The--the--”

“While we'll form the upsotted world, or a portion of it, without
something is done,--and that in a howling hurry, too!” fairly spluttered
Waldo, as the again neglected air-ship sped swiftly towards a more
elevated portion of that earth, part of the tall hill-crest which acted
as nature's barricade to yonder by nature depressed valley.

“Time enough, lad, time enough, since we are going to land,” coolly
assured the professor, deftly manipulating the steering-gear and still
curying around those tree-crowned hills. “If we are really hunted after,
'twill naturally be in the quarter of our vanishment, while by alighting
around yonder, nearly at right angles with our initial approach, we will
have naught to fear from the--the Aztecan clans!”

Clearly the professor had settled in his own mind just what lay before
them, and nothing short of the Lost City of the Aztecs would come
anywhere near satisfying that exalted ideal. And, taking all points into
full consideration, was there anything so very absurd in his method of
reasoning, or of drawing a deduction?

Still, that exaltation did not prevent uncle Phaeton from taking
all essential precautions, and it was only when an especially secure
landing-place was sighted that he really attempted to touch the earth.

Fully one-half of that wide circuit had been made, and as nothing could
be detected to give birth to fears for either self or air-ship, the
aeronauts skilfully landed their vessel with only the slightest of
jars. It was a well-screened location, where naught could be seen of the
flying-machine until close at hand, yet so arranged as to make a hasty
flight a very easy matter should the occasion ever arise.

Not until the landing was effected and all made secure, did Professor
Featherwit speak again. Then it was with gravely earnest speech which
suitably affected his nephews.

“Above all things, my dear lads, bear ever in mind this one fact,--we
are not here to fight. We do not come as conquerors, weapons in hand,
hearts filled with lust of blood. To the contrary, we are on a peaceful
mission, hoping to learn, trusting to enlighten, with malice towards
none, but honest love for all those who may wear the human shape, be
they of our own colour or--or--otherwise.”

“That's what's the matter with Hannah's cat!” cheerfully chipped in the
irrepressible Waldo. “I say, uncle Phaeton, is it just a lie-low here
until yonder fellows grow tired of looking for what they can't find,
then a flight on our part; or will we--”

“Have we voyaged so far and seen so much, to rest content with so very
little?” exclaimed the professor, hardly as precise of speech as
under ordinary conditions. “No, no, my lads! Yonder lies the greatest
discovery of the nineteenth century, and we are--Get a hustle on, boys!
The day is waning, and with so much to see, to study, to--Come, I say!”

In spite of his initial attempt to impress his nephews with a due sense
of the heavy responsibilities which rested upon them, Phaeton Featherwit
was far more excited than either one of the brothers. Doubtless he more
nearly appreciated the importance of this wondrous discovery, provided
his now firm belief was correct,--that yonder stood a solid, substantial
city, erected by the hands of a people whom common consent had agreed
were long since wiped out of existence.

The story told by Cooper Edgecombe, backed up by the articles taken from
the person of the warrior whom he had slain in self-defence, certainly
had its weight; while the brief and imperfect glimpse which he had won
of yonder valley helped to bear out that astounding belief. And yet, how
could it be true?

Really believing, yet forced by more sober reason to doubt, the poor
professor was literally “in a sweat” long ere another view could be won
of the depressed valley, although the landing of the air-ship was so
well chosen as to make that trip of the briefest duration consistent
with prudence.

The natural obstacles were considerable, however, and as they picked
their way along, the brothers for the first time began to gain a fairly
accurate idea of what was meant by the term, a virgin forest.

To all seeming, the human foot had never ventured here, nor were any
marks or spoor of wild beasts perceptible on either side.

Although the aerostat had landed not far below the crest of those hills,
the adventurers had to climb higher, before winning the coveted view,
partly because the most practicable route led down into and along a
winding gulch, where the footing was far less treacherous than upon the
higher ground, cumbered, as that was, with the leaf-mould of centuries.

Still, half an hour's steady labour brought the little squad to the
coveted point, and once again Professor Featherwit was almost literally
stricken speechless,--for there, far below their present location,
spread out in level expanse, lay the secret valley with all its marvels.

Far more extensive than it had appeared by that initial glimpse, the
valley itself seemed composed of fertile soil, yet, by aid of the river
which cut through, near its centre, irrigating ditches conveyed water to
every acre, thus ensuring bounteous crops of grain and of fruit as well.

Numerous buildings stood in irregular array, for the most part of no
great height, nor with many pretensions towards architectural beauty or
grace of outline; but in the centre of the valley upreared its head a
massive structure, pyramidal in shape, consisting of five comparatively
narrow terraces, connected one with another only at each of the four
corners, where stood a wide-stepped flight of stones.

“Behold!” huskily gasped the professor, intensely excited, yet still
able to control the field-glass through which he was eagerly scanning
yonder marvels. “The temple of the gods! And, yonder, the temple of
sacrifice, unless my memory is--and look! The people are--they wear
just such garb as--Oh, marvellous! Amazing! Astounding! Incredible--yet
true!”

Although their uncle could thus take in the various details to better
advantage, still the intervening distance was not so great as to
entirely debar the brothers from finding no little to interest them, as
was readily proven by their various exclamations.

“Just look at the people, will ye, now? Flopping around like they hadn't
any bigger business than to--Reckon they're looking for us to come back,
Bruno?”

“Or watching for the monster bird of prey, rather,” suggested the elder
Gillespie. “Of course they couldn't distinguish our faces, and our
bodies were fairly well hidden. And, even more, of course, they must be
totally ignorant of all such things as flying-machines and the like.”

“Poor, ignorant devils!” sympathetically sighed the youngster. “Well,
we'll have to do a little missionary work in this quarter, before taking
our departure, eh, uncle Phaeton?”

With a start, Featherwit descended out of the clouds in which he had
been lost ever since winning a fair view of the secret city; and
now, rallying his wits and fairly aglow with eager interest in this
marvellous discovery, he began pointing out the various objects of
special importance, naming them with glib assurance, then reminding the
boys how wonderfully similar all was to what had existed in Old Mexico
before the conquest.

Bruno listened with greater interest than his brother could summon at
will. For one thing, he had long been a lover of the genial Prescott,
and, now that his memory was freshened in part, was able to closely
follow the course of that little lecture, noting each strong point made
by the professor in bolstering up his delightful theory.

That monologue, however, was abruptly broken in upon by Waldo, who gave
an eager exclamation, as he reached forth a pointing finger:

“Look! There's a white woman yonder,--two of 'em, in fact!”



CHAPTER XVI. CAN IT BE TRUE?

That announcement came with all the force of a bolt from the blue, and
even the professor dropped his glasses with a gasp of amazement, while
Bruno would have leaped to his feet, only for the hasty grab which his
brother made at the tail of his coat.

“White--where? Surely it cannot be that--Edgecombe--”

“Augh, take a tumble, boy!” ejaculated Waldo, giving a jerk that
rendered compliance nearly literal, though scarcely full of grace. “Want
to have the whole gang make a howling break this way? Want to--They're
white all right, though!”

“Where? Which direction? Point them out, and--I fail to see anything
which would bear out your--”

The professor was sweeping yonder field with his glass, searching for
the primal cause of that latest excitement, but without success. No sign
of a white face, male or female, rewarded his efforts, and he turned an
inquiring gaze upon the youngster.

Waldo was peering from beneath the shade of his hand, but now drew back
with a long breath, to slowly shake his head.

“They've gone now, but I did see them, and they were white, just as
white as--as anything!”

Bruno frowned a bit at that unsatisfactory conclusion, but the professor
was of more equable temper, for a wonder. He smilingly shook his head,
while gazing kindly, then spoke:

“I myself might have made the same error, Waldo, but you surely were in
error, for once.”

“What! You mean I never saw those white women, uncle Phaeton?”

“No, no, I am not so seriously faulting your eyesight, my dear boy,”
 came the swift assurance. “But even the best of us are open to errors,
and there were in olden times not a few Aztecs with fair skins; not
exactly white, yet comparatively fair when their race was considered.
And, no doubt, Waldo, you saw just such another a bit ago.”

But the youngster was not so easily shaken in his own opinion.

“There were a couple of 'em, not just such another, uncle. And they were
white,--pure white as ever the Lord made a woman! And--why, didn't I see
their hair, long and floating loose? And wasn't that yellow as--as gold,
or the sunshine itself?”

“Yellow hair?”

“Yes, indeedy! Yellow hair, white skins,--faces, anyway. Blondes, the
couple of 'em; and to that I'll make my davy!”

And so the youngster maintained with even more than usual sturdiness,
when questioned more closely, pointing out the very spot upon which the
strange beings were standing, the top of a large, tall building, clearly
one of the series of temples.

In vain the field-glass was fixed upon that particular point. The partly
roofed azotea was wholly devoid of human life, and though watch was
maintained in that direction for many minutes thereafter, by one or
other of the air-voyagers, naught was seen to confirm the assertion made
by the younger Gillespie.

For the moment that fact or fancy dominated all other interests, for,
granting that Waldo had not been misled by a naturally fair Indian face,
there was room for a truly startling inference.

“Could it actually be they?” muttered Bruno, face pale and eyes
glittering with intense interest. “Could they have escaped with life
from the balloon, and been here ever since?”

“You mean--”

“The wife and child of Cooper Edgecombe,--yes! Who else could they be,
unless--I'd give a pretty penny for one fair squint at them, right now!
If there was only some method of--It would hardly do to venture down
yonder, uncle Phaeton?”

The professor gave a stern gesture of denial, frowning as though he
anticipated an actual break for yonder town, in spite of the odds
against them.

“That would be madness, Bruno! Worse than madness, by far! Look at
yonder warriors, all thoroughly armed, and eager to drink blood as ever
they were in centuries gone by! They are hundreds, if not thousands,
while we are but three! Madness, my boy!”

“Four, with Mr. Edgecombe, uncle.”

“And that means a complete host so long as we are backed up by the
air-ship,” declared Waldo, in his turn. “Those fellows!” with a sniff of
true boyish scorn for aught that was not fully up to date. “What could
they do, if we were to open fire on them just once?”

“Prove our equals, man for man, armed as they assuredly are,” just
as vigorously affirmed the professor, inclined rather to magnify than
diminish the importance of these, his so recently discovered people.
“You forget how the Aztecans fought Cortez and his mailed hosts. Yet
these are one and identical, so far as valour and training and blood can
go.”

“Huh! Scared of a runty horse so badly that they prayed to 'em as they
did to their own gods!” sniffed Waldo, betraying a lore for which he did
not ordinarily receive fair credit. “Why, uncle Phaeton, let you just
slam one o' those dynamite shells inside a chief--”

“Nay, Waldo, must I repeat, we are not here for the purpose of conquest,
unless by purely amicable methods. There must be no fighting, for or
against. Savages though most people would be inclined to pronounce
yonder race, they are human, with souls and--”

“But I always thought they were heathens, uncle Phaeton?”

The professor subsided at that, giving over as worse than useless the
attempt to enlighten the irrepressible youngster, at least for the time
being.

Silence ruled for some little time, during which each one of the trio
kept keen watch over the valley, the field-glass changing hands at
intervals in order to put all upon an equal footing.

One thing was clear enough unto all: the Indians had been greatly
wrought up by the brief appearance of some queerly shaped monster of the
air, and while a goodly number of their best warriors had hastened out
of the valley and up the difficult passes, in hopes of learning more,
still others were astir, weapons in hand, evidently determined to defend
their lives or their property from any assault, should such be made,
whether by known or foreign adversaries.

This busy stir and bustle, combined with the novel architecture and so
many varying points of interest, would have been a mental and visual
feast for the trio of air-voyagers, only for that one doubt: were
white captives actually in yonder temple? And, if white, were they the
long-lost relatives of the aeronaut, Cooper Edgecombe?

Quite naturally the interest displayed by the Indians centred in the
quarter of the heavens where that air-demon had been sighted, hence our
friends saw very little cause for apprehension on their own parts.

Thus they were given a better opportunity for thinking of and then
discussing the new marvel.

Again did Waldo vow that his eyes had not befooled him. Again he
positively asserted that he had seen two white women, wearing blonde
hair in loose waves far adown their backs. And once again Bruno, in
half-awed tones, wondered whether or no they were the mother and child
borne away upon the wings of a mighty storm, fifteen long years gone by.

“It is possible, though scarcely credible,” admitted uncle Phaeton, in
grave tones, as he wrinkled his brows after his peculiar fashion when
ill at ease in his mind. “Edgecombe lived through just such another
experience; though, to be sure, he was a man of iron constitution, while
they were far more delicate, as a matter of course.”

“Still, it may have happened so?” persisted Bruno, taking a strong
interest in the matter. “You would not call it too far-fetched, uncle?”

“No. It may have happened. I would rather call it marvellous, yet still
possible. And if so--”

“There is but a single answer to that supposition, uncle; they must be
rescued from captivity!” forcibly declared Bruno.

“That's right,” confirmed Waldo. “Of course all women and girls--I mean
other people's kin--are a tremendous sight of bother and worry, and all
that; but we're white, and so are they.”

“We must rescue them; there's nothing else to do,” again emphasised the
elder Gillespie.

“That is no doubt the proper caper, speaking from your boyish point of
view, my generous-hearted nephews; but--just how?” dryly queried the
professor. “Have you arranged all that, as well, Bruno?”

“You surely would not abandon them, uncle Phaeton?” asked the young
man, something abashed by that veiled reproof. “To such a horrible fate,
too?”

“A fate which they must have endured for fifteen years, provided your
theory is correct, Bruno,” with a fleeting smile. “Don't mistake me,
lads. I am ready and willing to do all that a man of my powers may,
provided I see just and sufficient cause for taking decisive action.
That is yet lacking. We are not certain that there are white women
yonder. Or, if white women, that they are captives. Or, if captives,
that they would thank us for aiding them to escape.”

“Why, uncle Phaeton! Think of Mr. Edgecombe, and how--”

“I am thinking of him, and I wish to think yet a little longer,” quietly
spoke the professor, “keep a lookout, lads, and if you see aught of
Waldo's fair women, pray notify me.”

For the better part of an hour comparative silence reigned, the boys
feasting eyes upon yonder spectacle, their uncle deeply in reverie; but
then he roused up, his final decision arrived at.

“I will do it!” were his first words. “Yes, I will do it!”

“Do what, uncle Phaeton?” asked Waldo, with poorly suppressed eagerness,
as he turned towards his relative.

“Go after Cooper Edgecombe,--bringing him here in order that he may,
sooner or later, solve this perplexing enigma. Come, boys, we may as
well start back towards the aerostat.”

But both youngsters objected in a decided manner, Waldo saying:

“No, no, uncle Phaeton! Why should we go along? You'll be coming right
back, and will be less crowded in the ship if we don't go.”

“And we can better wait right here; don't you see, uncle?”

“To keep the Lost City safely found, don't you know? What if it should
take a sudden notion to lose itself again?” added Waldo, innocently.



CHAPTER XVII. AN ENIGMA FOR THE BROTHERS.

In place of the indulgent smile for which he was playing, Waldo received
a frown, and directly thereafter the professor spoke in tones which
could by no possibility be mistaken.

“Come with me, both of you. I am going back to the aerostat, and I dare
not leave you boys behind. Come!”

Kind of heart and generally complaisant though uncle Phaeton was,
neither Bruno nor Waldo cared to cross his will when made known in such
tones, and without further remonstrance they followed his lead, slipping
away from the snug little observatory without drawing attention to
themselves from any of yonder busy horde.

Not until the trio was fairly within the gulch did the professor speak
again, and then but a brief sentence or two.

“Give me time to weigh the matter, lads. Possibly I may agree, but don't
try to hurry my cooler judgment, please.”

Waldo gave his brother an eager nudge at this, gestures and grimaces
being made to supply the lack of words. But when, the better to express
his confidence that all was coming their way, the youngster attempted a
caper of delight, his foot slipped from a leaf-hidden stone, and he took
an awkward tumble at full length.

“Never touched me!” he cried, scrambling to his feet ere a hand could
come to his aid. “Who says I don't know how to stand on both ends at the
same time?”

Barring this little caper, naught took place on their way to the
air-ship; and once there, the professor heaved a mighty sigh, wiping his
heated face as one might who has just won a worthy race. But he betrayed
no especial haste in setting the flying-machine afloat and Waldo finally
ventured:

“Can we help you off, uncle Phaeton?”

But he was assured there existed no necessity for such great haste.

“In fact, it might be dangerous to start while so many of the Aztecs are
upon the lookout,” came the unexpected addition. “I believe it would be
vastly better not to leave here until shortly before dawn, to-morrow.”

It took but a few words further to convince the brothers that this idea
was wisest, and while the young fellows felt sorry to have their view
cut so short, neither ventured to actually rebel.

After all, the day was well-nigh spent, and, besides preparing their
evening meal, it was essential that their plans for the immediate future
should be shaped as thoroughly as possible.

Professor Featherwit had resolved to fetch Cooper Edgecombe to the scene
of interest, in order to give him at least a fair chance to solve the
enigma which was perplexing them all. Even so, he felt that no small
degree of physical danger would attend that presence, particularly if
it should really prove, as they could but suspect, that both wife and
daughter of the involuntary exile were yonder, among the Aztecans.

Much of this the professor made known to his nephews during that
evening, the trio thoroughly discussing the matter in all its bearings,
but before the air-ship was prepared for the night's rest, uncle Phaeton
made the youngsters happy by consenting to their remaining behind as
guardians to the Lost City, while he went in quest of the balloonist.

“But bear ever in mind the conditions, lads,” was his earnest
conclusion. “I place you upon your honour to take all possible
precautions against being discovered, or even running the least
unnecessary risk during my absence.”

“Don't let that bother you, uncle Phaeton,” Waldo hastened to give
assurance. “We'll be wise as pigeons, and cautious as any old snake you
ever caught up a tree; eh, Bruno, old man?”

“We promise all you ask, uncle, but does that mean we must stay right
here, without even stealing a weenty peep at the Lost City?”

Professor Featherwit felt sorely tempted to say yes, but then, knowing
boyish nature (although Bruno had just passed his majority, while Waldo
was “turned seventeen”) so well, he feared to draw the reins too tightly
lest they give way entirely.

“No; I do not expect quite that much, my lads; but I do count on your
taking no unnecessary risks, and in case of discovery that you
rather trust to flight, and my finding you later on, than to actually
fighting.”

So it was decided, and at a fairly early hour the trio lay down to
sleep. Although so unusually excited by the marvellous discoveries of
the day just spent, their open-air life tended to calm their brains,
and, far sooner than might have been expected, sleep crept over them,
one and all, lasting until nearly dawn.

Perhaps it was just as well that the wakening was not more early, for
the professor was beginning to regret his weakness of the past evening,
and had there been more time for drawing lugubrious pictures of probable
mishaps, he might even yet have insisted on taking the youngsters with
him.

Knowing that it was rather more than probable some of the Indians would
be stationed upon the hills to watch for the queerly shaped air-demon,
the professor felt obliged to lose no further time, and so the
separation was effected, just as the eastern sky was beginning to show
streaks and veins of a new day.

“Touch and go!” cried Waldo, with a vast inhalation as he watched the
aeromotor sail away with the swiftness of a bird on wing. “And for a
weenty bit I reckoned 'twas you and me as part of the go, too!”

In company the lads enjoyed a more leisurely meal than their relative
had dared wait for, knowing that, at the very least, they would have the
whole of that day to themselves, so far as uncle Phaeton was concerned.
As a matter of course, he would not attempt to return except under cover
of night, or in the early dawn of another day.

All that had been thoroughly discussed and provided for the evening
before, and was barely touched upon by the brothers now. Their first and
most natural thought was of yonder Lost City, with its inhabitants, red,
white, and yellow, as Waldo put it; but being still under the foreboding
fears of the professor, they finally agreed to remain where he left them
until after the sun crossed its meridian.

It was a rather early meal which the brothers prepared, if the whole
truth must be told; and the last fragments were bolted rather than
chewed, feet keeping time with jaws, as they hastened towards the
observatory.

There was pretty much the same sort of view as on the day before, the
main difference being that many of the Indians were labouring in the
fields, instead of watching for the air-demon.

Using the glass by turns, the lads kept eager watch for the white women
whom Waldo stubbornly persisted were within the town; but hour after
hour passed without the desired reward, and Bruno began to doubt whether
there was any such vision to be won.

“The sun was in your eyes, and you let mad fancy run away with your
better judgment, boy,” he decided, at length. “If not, why--what now?”

For Waldo gave a low, eager exclamation, gripping the field-glass as
though he would crush in the reinforced leather case. A few moments
thus, then he laughed in almost fierce glee, thrusting the glass towards
his brother, speaking excitedly:

“A crazy fool lunatic, am I? Well, now, you just take a squint at the
old house for yourself and see if--biting you, now, is it?”

For Bruno showed even more intense interest as he caught the right line,
there taking note of--yes, they surely were white women! Faces, hair,
all went to proclaim that fact. And more than that, even.

“Fair--lovely as a painter's dream!” almost painfully breathed the elder
Gillespie. “I never saw such a lovely--”

“Injun squaw, of course. Couple of 'em. Nobody but a fool would ever
think different. The idea of finding white women--”

“They are ladies, Waldo! I never saw such--and I feel that they must be
the ones lost by poor Edgecombe when that storm--”

“That's all right enough, old fellow,” interrupted Waldo, claiming the
glass once more. “No need of your playing the porker on legs, though, as
I see. Give another fellow a chance to squint. But aren't they regular
jo-dandies, though, for a fact?”

The two women in question, clad in flowing robes of white, lit up here
and there by a dash of colour, were slowly pacing to and fro upon the
temple where first discovered by the keen-eyed youngster. Thanks to the
excellent glass, it was possible to view them clearly in spite of the
distance, and there could be no dispute upon that one point: both mother
and daughter (granting that such was their relationship) were more than
ordinarily fair and comely of both face and person.

For the better part of an hour that slow promenade lasted, and until
the women finally passed beyond their range of vision, the brothers took
eager and copious notes. Then, in spite of the fact that scores of other
figures still came within their field of vision, curiosity lagged.

“It's like watching a street medicine show, after hearing Patti or
seeing Irving,” muttered Bruno, drawing back and stretching his wearied
limbs beyond possible discovery.

“Or the A B C class playing two-old-cat, after a league game of extra
innings; right you are, my hearty!” coincided Waldo, feeling pretty much
the same way, “only with a difference.”

Shortly after this, Bruno suggested a retreat to the rendezvous, and for
a wonder his brother agreed without amendment.

The brothers passed down to the gulch, which formed the easiest route
to their refuge, saying very little, and that in lowered tones. The
confirmation so recently won served to stir their hearts deeply, and
neither boy could as yet see a way out of the labyrinth that discovery
most assuredly opened up before them.

“Of course we can't leave them there to drag on such a wretched
existence,” declared Bruno. “We couldn't do that, even though we learned
they held no relationship to Mr. Edgecombe. But--how?”

“I reckon it's--what?” abruptly spoke Waldo, gripping an arm and
stopping short for a few seconds, but then impulsively springing onward
again as wild sounds arose from no great distance.

A score of seconds later they caught sight of a huge grizzly bear in
the act of falling upon a slender stripling, whose bronze hue as surely
proclaimed one of the Aztec children from yonder Lost City.

What was to be done? Disobey their uncle, or leave this lad to perish?



CHAPTER XVIII. SOMETHING LIKE A WHITE ELEPHANT.

Only a lad, slight-limbed and slenderly framed to the eye, yet for all
that gifted with a gallant heart, else he surely must have been cowed to
terror by the huge bulk of such a dire adversary at close quarters.

Instead of trying to find safety in headlong flight, the Indian stood
at bay, with both hands firmly gripping the shaft of his copper-bladed
spear, at far too close quarters for employing bow and arrows, while the
copper knife in his sash was held in reserve for still closer work.

Snarling, growling, displaying its great teeth while clumsily waving
enormous paws which bore talons of more than a finger-length, the
bear was balanced upon its hindquarters, evidently just ready to lurch
forward with striking paws and gnashing teeth.

Its enormous weight would prove more than sufficient to end the contest
ere it fairly began, while a slight stroke from those taloned paws would
both slay and mutilate.

No one was better aware of all this than the Indian lad himself, yet he
took the initiative, swiftly darting his spear forward, lending to
its keen point all the power of both arms and body. A suicidal act it
certainly appeared, yet one which could scarcely make his position more
perilous.

An awful roar burst from bruin as he felt that thrust, the blade sinking
deep and biting shrewdly; but then he plunged forward, striking savagely
as he dropped.

The Indian strove to leap backward an instant after delivering his
stroke, but still clung to the spear-shaft. This hampered his action
to a certain degree, yet in all probability that stout ashen shaft
preserved his life, which that wound would otherwise have forfeited.

The stroke but brushed a shoulder, nor did a claw take fair effect, yet
the stripling was felled to earth as though smitten by a thunderbolt.

All this before the brothers could solve the enigma thus offered them so
unexpectedly; but that fall, and the awful rage displayed by the wounded
grizzly as he briefly reared erect to grind asunder the spearshaft,
decided the white lads, and, temporarily forgetting how dangerously nigh
were yonder Aztecan hosts, both Bruno and Waldo opened fire with their
Winchester rifles, sending shot after shot in swift succession into the
bulky brute, fairly beating him backward under their storm of lead.

Victory came right speedily, but its finale was thrilling, if not fatal,
the huge beast toppling forward to drop heavily upon the young savage,
just as he was recovering sufficiently from shock and surprise to begin
a struggle for his footing.

Firing another couple of shots while rifle-muzzle almost touched an ear,
the brothers quickly turned attention towards the fallen Indian,
more than half believing him a corpse, crushed out of shape upon the
underlying rocks by that enormous carcass.

Fortunately for all concerned, the young Aztec was lying in a natural
depression between two firm rocks, and while his extrication proved
to be a matter of both time and difficulty, saying nothing of main
strength, success finally rewarded the efforts of our young Samaritans.

The grizzly was stone-dead. The Indian seemed but a trifle better,
though that came through compression rather than any actual wounds from
tooth or talon. And the brothers themselves were fairly dismayed.

Not until that rescue was finally accomplished did either lad
give thought to what might follow; but now they drew back a bit,
interchanging looks of puzzled doubt and worry.

“Right in it, up to our necks, old man! And we can't very well kill the
critter, can we?”

“Of course not; but it may cause us sore trouble if--”

Just then the young Aztec rallied sufficiently to move, drawing a step
nearer the brothers, right hand coming out in greeting, while left palm
was pressed close above his heart. And--still greater marvel!

“Much obliged--me, you, brother!”

If yonder bleeding grizzly had risen erect and made just such a
salutation as this, it could scarcely have caused greater surprise to
either Bruno or Waldo, looking upon this being, as they quite naturally
did, in the light of a genuine “heathen,” hence incapable of speaking
any known tongue, much less the glorious Americanese.

True, there was a certain odd accent, a curious dwelling upon each
syllable, but the words themselves were distinctly pronounced and beyond
misapprehension.

“Why, I took you for a howling Injun!” fairly exploded Waldo, then
stepping forward to clasp the proffered member, giving it a regular
“pump-handle shake” by way of emphasis. “And here you are, slinging the
pure United States around just as though it didn't cost a cent, and you
held a mortgage on the whole dictionary! Why, I can't--well, well, now!”

For once in a way the glib-tongued lad was at a loss just what to say
and how to say it. For, after all, this surely was a redskin, and the
professor had explicitly warned them against--oh, dear!

Was it all a dizzy dream? For the Aztec drew back, speaking rapidly in
an unknown tongue, then sinking to earth like one overpowered by sudden
physical weakness.

Bruno Gillespie, too, was recalling his uncle's earnest cautions, and
now took prompt action. He quickly secured the weapons which had been
scattered as the Indian fell before the grizzly's paw, then the brothers
drew a little apart to consult together.

“What'll we do about it?” whisperingly demanded Waldo, keeping a wary
eye upon yonder redskin. “You tell, for blamed if I know how!”

“We daren't let him go free, else he might fetch the whole tribe upon
our track,” said Bruno, in the same low tones, no whit less sorely
perplexed as to their wisest course.

“No, and yet we can't very well kill him, either! If we hadn't come
along just as we did, or if--but he's a man, after all! Who could stand
by and see that ugly brute make a meal off even an Injun?”

Bruno cast an uneasy look around, at the same time deftly refilling the
partly exhausted magazine of his Winchester.

“Load up, Waldo. Burning powder reaches mighty far, even here in the
hills; and who knows,--the whole tribe may come helter-skelter this way,
to see what has broken loose! And we can't fight 'em all

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