The stranger laughed aloud at this, then seemed surprised that aught
of mirth could be awakened where grief and despair had so long reigned
supreme.
“You will come with me to--to my den, gentlemen?” he asked, still
nervous, and plainly loath to do aught which indicated a return to his
recent dreary method of living.
“Is the distance great?” asked Professor Featherwit, with a glance
towards the aeromotor, then flashing his gaze further, as though to
guard against possible harm coming to that valuable piece of property.
More than ever to be guarded now, since the words spoken by this
exile. Better death in yonder mighty whirlpool than a half-score years'
imprisonment here!
Not so very far, he was assured, while it would be comparatively easy to
float the air-ship above the trees, there of no extraordinary growth.
At the same time this assurance was given, the stranger could not mask
his uneasiness of mind, and it was really pitiful to see one so strong
in body and limb, so weak otherwise.
But uncle Phaeton was a fairly keen judge of human nature, and possessed
no small degree of tact. Divining the real cause of that dread, he took
the easiest method of allaying it, speaking briskly as he moved across
to the aerostat.
“Bear the gentleman company, my lads, while I manage the ship. You will
know what signals to make, and I can contrive the rest.”
Again the recluse laughed, but now it was through pure joy, such as he
had not experienced for long years gone by. He was not to be deserted
by his rescuers from the whirlpool, and that was comfort enough for the
moment.
Thanks to that guidance, but little time was cut to waste, Professor
Featherwit taking the flying-machine away from the shore of the lake,
floating slowly above the tree-tops, guiding his movements by those
below, finally effecting a safe landing in a miniature glade, at no
great distance from the “den” alluded to by their new-found friend.
“It will be perfectly safe here,” the exile hastened to give assurance,
as that landing was made. “Then, too, this is the only spot nigh at
hand from which a hasty ascent could well be made, even with such an
admirable machine as yours. Ah, me!” with a long breath which lacked but
little of being a sigh, as he keenly, eagerly examined the aerostat. “A
marvel! Who would have dared predict such another, only a dozen years
ago? I thought we had drawn very close to perfection while I was in the
profession, but this,--marvellous!”
Both words and manner gave the keen-witted professor a clew to one
mystery, and he quickly spoke:
“Then you were familiar with aerostatics, sir? Your name is--”
“Edgecombe,--Cooper Edgecombe.”
“What?” with undisguised surprise in face as in voice. “Professor
Edgecombe, the celebrated balloonist who was lost so long ago?”
“Ay! lost here in this thrice accursed wilderness!” passionately cried
the exile; then, as though abashed by his own outburst, he turned away,
pausing again only when at the entrance to his dreary refuge of many
years.
“Give the poor fellow his own way until he has had time to rally, boys,”
muttered uncle Phaeton, in lowered tones, before following that lead. “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.