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