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!”
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.
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?”
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.