The Lost City by Jr. Joseph E. Badger (good summer reads TXT) 📕

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