The Lost City by Jr. Joseph E. Badger (me reader .txt) 📖

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