There was neither time nor opportunity for taking notes, for that
long rope straightened out in the fraction of a second, throwing all
prostrate as the flying-machine was jerked upward with awful force.
All around them raged and roared the mighty winds, while missiles of
almost every description pelted and pounded both machine and inmates
during those few seconds of extraordinary peril.
Fortunately neither the professor nor his nephews could fairly realise
just what was taking place, else their brains would hardly have stood
the test; and fortunately, too, that ordeal was not protracted.
A hideous experience while it lasted, those vicious currents dragging
the aerostat upward out of the air-chamber by means of grapnel and rope,
then casting all far away in company with wrecked trees and bushes,
and even solider materials, all shrouded for a time in dust and debris,
which hindered the eyesight of both uncle and nephews.
Through it all the brothers were dimly aware of one fact uncle Phaeton
was shrilly bidding them cling fast and have courage.
All at once they felt as though vomited forth from a volcano which
alternately breathed fire and ice, the clear light of evening bursting
upon their aching, smarting eyes with actual pain, while that horrid
roar of warring elements seemed to pass away in the distance, leaving
them--where, and how?
“We're falling to--merciful heavens! Hold fast, all!” screamed the
professor, desperately striving to regain full command of their
air-ship. “The tiller is jammed, but--”
To all seeming, the aerostat had sustained some fatal damage during that
brief eruption caused by the professor's little experiment, for it
was pitching drunkenly end for end, refusing to obey the hand of its
builder, bearing all to certain death upon the earth far below.
Half stupefied with fear, the brothers clung fast to the life-line and
glared downward, noting, in spite of themselves, how swiftly yonder dark
tree-tops and gray crags were shooting heavenward to meet them and claim
the sacrifice.
With fierce energy Professor Featherwit jerked and wrenched at the
steering-gear, uttering words such as had long been foreign to his lips,
but then--just when destruction appeared inevitable--a wild cry burst
from his lungs, as a broken bit of native wood came away in his left
hand, leaving the lever free as of old!
And then, with a dizzying swoop and rapid recovery, the gallant air-ship
came back to an even keel, sailing along with old-time grace and ease,
barely in time to avoid worse mishap as the crest of a tall tree was
brushed in their passage.
“Saved,--saved, my lads!” screamed the professor, as his heart-pet
soared upward once more until well past the danger-line. “Safe and sound
through all,--praises be unto the Lord, our Father!”
Neither brother spoke just then, for they lay there in half stupor,
barely able to realise the wondrous truth: that their lives had surely
been spared them, even as by a miracle!
That swooping turn now brought their faces towards the tornado, which
was at least a couple of miles distant, rapidly making that distance
greater even while continuing its work of destruction.
“And we--were in it!” huskily muttered Bruno, his lids closing with a
shiver, as he averted his face, unwilling to see more.
“Heap sight worse than being in the soup, too, if anybody asks you,”
declared Waldo, beginning to rally both in strength and in spirit.
“But--what's the matter with the old ship, uncle Phaeton?”
For the aerostat was indulging itself in sundry distressing gyrations,
pretty much as a boy's kite swoops from side to side, when lacking in
tail-ballast, while the professor seemed unable to keep the machine
under complete control.
“Nothing serious, only--hold fast, all! I believe 'twould be as well to
make our descent, for fear something--steady!”
Just ahead there appeared a more than usually open space in the forest,
and, quite as much by good luck as through actual skill, Professor
Featherwit succeeded in making a landing with no more serious mishap
than sundry bruises and a little extra teeth-jarring.
As quickly as possible, both Bruno and Waldo pitched themselves out of
the partially disabled aeromotor, the elder brother grasping the grapnel
and taking a couple of turns of the strong rope around a convenient
tree-trunk, lest the ship escape them altogether.
“No need, my gallant boy!” assured the professor, an instant later. “All
is well,--all IS well, thanks to an over-ruling Providence!”
In spite of this expressed confidence, he hurriedly looked over his pet
machine, taking note of such injuries as had been received during that
remarkable journey, only giving over when fairly satisfied that all
damage might be readily made good, after which the aerostat would be as
trustworthy as upon its first voyage on high.
Then, grasping the brothers each by a hand, he smiled genially, then
lifted eyes heavenward, to a moment later sink upon his knees with bowed
head and hands folded across his bosom.
Bruno and Waldo imitated his action, and, though no audible words
were spoken, never were more heartfelt prayers sent upward, never more
grateful thanks given unto the Most High.
Boy, youth, and man alike seemed fairly awed into silence for the next
few minutes, unable to so soon cast off the spell which had fallen upon
them, one and each, when realising how mercifully their lives had been
spared, even after all earthly hope had been abandoned.
As usual, however, Waldo was first to rally, and, after silently moving
around the aerostat, upon which the professor was already busily at work
by the last gleams of the vanished sun, he paused, legs separated, and
hands thrust deep into pockets, head perking on one side as he spoke,
drawlingly:
“I say, uncle Phaeton?”
“What is it, Waldo?”
“It'll never do to breathe even a hint of all this, will it?”
“Why so, pray?”
“Whoever heard it would swear we were bald-headed liars right from
Storytown! And yet,--did it really happen, or have I been dreaming all
the way through?”
Professor Featherwit gave a brief, dry chuckle at this, rising erect to
cast a deliberate glance around their present location, then speaking:
“Without I am greatly mistaken, my dear boy, you will have still other
marvellous happenings to relate ere we return to what is, rightfully or
wrongfully, called civilisation.”
“Is that so? Then you really reckon--”
“For one thing, my lad, we are now fairly entered upon a terra
incognita, so far as our own race is concerned. In other words,--behold,
the Olympics!”
Both Bruno and Waldo cast their eyes around, but only a circumscribed
view was theirs. The shades of evening were settling fast, and on all
sides they could see but mighty trees, rugged rocks, a mountain stream
from whose pebbly bed came a soothing murmur.
“Nothing so mighty much to brag of, anyway,” irreverently quoth Waldo,
after that short-lived scrutiny. “It wouldn't fetch a dollar an acre at
auction, and for my part,--wonder when the gong will sound for supper?”
That blunt hint was effective, and, letting the subject drop for the
time being, even the professor joined in the hurry for an evening meal,
to which one and all felt able to do full justice.
Although some rain had fallen at this point as well, no serious
difficulty was experienced in kindling a fire, while Waldo had little
trouble in heaping up a bounteous supply of fuel.
Through countless ages the forest monarchs had been shedding their
superfluous boughs, while here and there lay an entire tree, overthrown
by some unknown power, and upon which the brothers made heavy
requisition.
Professor Featherwit took from the locker a supply of tinned goods,
together with a patent coffee-pot and frying-pan, so convenient where
space is scarce and stowage-room precious.
With water from the little river, it took but a few minutes more to
scent the evening with grateful fumes, after which the adventurous trio
squatted there in the ruddy glow, eating, sipping, chatting, now and
again forced to give thanks for their really miraculous preservation
after all human hopes had been exhausted.
Although Professor Featherwit was but little less thankful for the
wondrous leniency shown them, he could not altogether refrain from
mourning the loss of his camera, with its many snap-shots at the tornado
itself, to say nothing of what he might have secured in addition, while
riding the storm so marvellously.
More to take his thoughts away from that loss than through actual
curiosity in the subject offered by way of substitute, Bruno asked for
further light upon the so-called terra incognita.
“Of course it isn't really an unknown land, though, uncle Phaeton?” he
added, almost apologetically. “In this age, and upon our own continent,
such a thing is among the impossibilities.”
“Indeed? And, pray, how long since has it been that you would, with at
least equal positivity, have declared it impossible to enter a tornado
while in wildest career, yet emerge from it with life and limb intact?”
“Yes, uncle, but--this is different, by far.”
“In one sense, yes; in another, no,” affirmed the professor, with
emphatic nod, brushing the tips of his fingers together, as he moved
back to assume a more comfortable position inside the air-ship, then
quickly preparing a pipe and tobacco for his regular after-meal smoke.
A brief silence, then the professor spoke, clearly, distinctly:
“Washington has her great unknown land, quite as much as has the
interior of Darkest Africa, my boys, besides enjoying this peculiar
advantage: while adventurous white men have traversed those benighted
regions in every direction, even though little permanent good may
have been accomplished, this terra incognita remains virgin in that
particular sense of the word.”
“You mean, uncle?”
“That here in the Olympic region you see what is literally an unknown,
unexplored scope of country, as foreign to the foot of mankind as it was
countless ages gone by. So far as history reads, neither white man nor
red has ever ventured fairly within these limits; a mountainous waste
which rises from the level country, within ten or fifteen miles of the
Straits of San Juan de Fuca, in the north, the Pacific Ocean in the
west, Hood's Canal in the east, and the barren sand-hills lying to the
far south.
“This irregular range is known upon the map as the Olympics, and,
rising to the height of from six to eight thousand feet, shut in a vast
unexplored area.
“The Indians have never penetrated it, so far as can be ascertained,
for their traditions say that it is inhabited by a very fierce tribe of
warriors, before whose might and strange weapons not one of the coast
tribes can stand.”
“One of the Lost Tribes of Israel, shouldn't wonder,” drawlingly
volunteered Waldo, stifling a yawn, and forced to rub his inflamed eyes
with a surreptitious paw.
Professor Featherwit, though plainly absorbed in his curious theory, was
yet quick to detect this evidence of weariness, and laughed a bit, with
change of both tone and manner, as he spoke further:
“That forms but a partial introductory to my lecture, dear lads, but
perhaps it might be as well to postpone the rest for a more propitious
occasion. You have undergone sore trials, both of--Hark!”
Some sound came to his keen ears, which the brothers failed to catch,
but as they bent their heads in listening, another noise came, which
proved startling enough, in all conscience,--a shrill, maniacal screech,
which sent cold chills running races up each spine.