The Lost City, Jr. Joseph E. Badger [spicy books to read txt] 📗

“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