This was the idea that occurred to both uncle and nephews, but they had
seen and heard enough to excuse all that, and Professor Featherwit spoke
again, in mildly curious tones:
“Sorry I am unable to give you better tidings, my good friend, but, so
far as my knowledge extends, nothing has come to light of recent years.
And--if not a leading question--were those passengers friends of your
own?”
“Only--merely my--my wife and little daughter,” came the totally
unexpected reply, followed by a forced laugh which sounded anything but
mirthful.
Uncle Phaeton, intensely chagrined, hastened to apologise for his
luckless break, but Cooper Edgecombe cut him short, asking that the
matter be let drop for the time being.
“I will talk; I feel that I must tell you all, or lose what few wits
I have left,” he declared, huskily. “But not right now. It is growing
late. You must be hungry. I have no very extensive larder, but with my
little will go the gratitude of a man who--”
His voice choked, and he left the sentence unfinished, hurrying away to
prepare such a meal as his limited means would permit.
While Edgecombe was kindling a fire in one corner of the cavern, opening
a pile of ashes to extract the few carefully cherished coals by means
of which the wood was to be fired, uncle and one nephew left the den to
look after the flying-machine and contents.
Bruno remained behind, in obedience to a hint from the professor, lest
the exile should dread desertion, after all.
“Take these in and open them, Waldo,” said the professor, selecting
several cans from the stock in the locker. “Poor fellow! 'Twill be like
a foretaste of civilisation, just to see and smell, much less taste, the
fruit.”
“Even if he has turned looney, eh, uncle Phaeton?”
“Careful, boy! I hardly think he is just that far gone; but, even if
so, what marvel? Think of all he must have suffered during so many
long, dreary years! and--his wife and child! I wonder--I do wonder if he
really killed--but that is incredible, simply and utterly incredible! An
Aztec--here--alive!”
“Dead, uncle Phaeton,” corrected Waldo. “Killed the redskin, he said,
and I really reckon he meant it. Why not, pray?”
“But--an Aztec, boy!” exclaimed the bewildered savant, unable to pass
that point. “The tunic of quilted cotton, the escaupil! The maquahuitl,
with its blades of grass! The bow and arrows which--all, all surely of
Aztecan manufacture, yet seemingly fresh and serviceable as though in
use but a month ago! And the race extinct for centuries!”
“Well, unless he's a howling liar from 'way up the crick, he extincted
one of 'em,” cheerfully commented Waldo, bearing his canned fruit to the
cavern.
Professor Featherwit followed shortly after, finding the exile busy
preparing food, looking and acting far more naturally than he had since
his rescue from the whirlpool. And then, until the evening meal was
announced, uncle Phaeton hovered near those amazing curiosities, now
gazing like one in a waking dream, then gingerly fingering each article
in turn, as though hoping to find a solution for his enigma through the
sense of touch.
Taken all in all, that was far from a pleasant or enjoyable meal. A
sense of restraint rested upon each one of that little company, and not
one succeeded in fairly breaking it away, though each tried in turn.
Despite the struggle made by the exile to hold all emotions well under
subjection, Cooper Edgecombe failed to hide his almost childish delight
at sight and taste of those canned goods, and it did not require much
urging on the part of his rescuers to ensure his partaking freely.
But the cap-sheaf came when uncle Phaeton, true to his habit of long
years, after eating, produced pipe and pouch, the fragrant tobacco
catching the exile's nostrils and drawing a low, tremulous cry from his
lips.
No need to ask what was the matter, for that eager gaze, those quivering
fingers, were enough. And just as though this had been his express
purpose, the professor passed the pipe over, quietly speaking:
“Perhaps you would like a little smoke after your supper, my good
friend? Oblige me by--”
“May I? Oh, sir, may I--really taste--oh, oh, oh!”
Bruno struck a match and steadied the pipe until the tobacco was fairly
ignited, then drew back and left the exile to himself for the time
being. And, as covert glances told them, never before had their eyes
rested upon mortal being so intensely happy as was the long-lost
aeronaut then and there.
At a sign from the professor, Bruno and Waldo silently arose and left
the cavern, bearing their guardian company to where the air-ship was
resting. And there they busied themselves with making preparations for
the night, which was just settling over that portion of the earth.
Presently Cooper Edgecombe appeared, the empty pipe in hand, held as
one might caress an inestimable treasure, a dreamy, almost blissful
expression upon his sun-browned face.
“I thank you, sir, more than tongue can tell,” he said, quietly, as he
restored the pipe to its owner. “If you could only realise what I have
suffered through this deprivation! I, an inveterate smoker; yet suddenly
deprived of it, and so kept for ten long years! If I had had a pipe and
tobacco, I believe--but enough.”
“I can sympathise with you, at least in part, my friend. Will you have
another smoke, by the way?”
“No, no, not now; I feel blessed for the moment, and more might be worse
than none, after so long deprivation. And--may I talk openly to you,
dear, kind friends? May I tell you--am I selfish in wishing to trouble
you thus? Ten years, remember, and not a soul to speak with!”
He laughed, but it was a sorry mirth; and not caring to trust his tongue
just then, uncle Phaeton nodded his head emphatically while filling his
pipe for himself. But Waldo never lacked for words, and spoke out:
“That's all right, sir; we can listen as long as you can chin-chin. Tell
us all about--well, what's the matter with that big Injun?”
“Quiet, Waldo. Say what best pleases you, my friend. You can be sure of
one thing,--sympathetic listeners, if nothing better.”
With a curious shiver, as though afflicted with a sudden chill,
Edgecombe turned partly away, figure drawn rigidly erect, hands tightly
clasped behind his back. A brief silence, then he spoke in tones of
forced composure.
“A balloon was the best, in my day, and I was proud of my profession,
although even then I was dreaming of better things--of something akin
to this marvellous creation of yours, sir,” casting a fleeting glance
at the air-ship, then at the face of its builder, afterward resuming his
former attitude.
“Let that pass, though. I wanted to tell you how I met with my awful
loss; how I came to be out here in this modern hell!
“I had a wife, a daughter, each of whom felt almost as powerful an
interest in aerostatics as I did myself. And one day--but, wait!
“I had an enemy, too; one who had, years before, sought to win my
love for his own; in vain, the cur! And that day--we were out here in
Washington Territory, living in comparative solitude that I might the
better study out the theory I was slowly shaping in my brain.
“The day was beautiful, but almost oppressively warm, and, as they
so frequently wished, I let my dear ones up in the balloon, securely
fastening it below. And then--God forgive me!--I went back to town for
something; I forget just what, now.
“A sudden storm came up. I hurried homeward; home to me was wherever
my dear ones chanced to be; but I was just too late! That devil of all
devils was ahead of me, and I saw him--merciful God! I saw him--cut the
ropes and let the balloon dart away upon that awful gale!”
His voice choked, and for a few minutes silence reigned. Knowing how
vain must be any attempt to offer consolation, the trio of air-voyagers
said nothing, and presently Cooper Edgecombe spoke.
“I killed the demon. I nearly tore him limb from limb; I would have done
just that, only for those who came hurrying after me from town, knowing
that I might need help in bringing my balloon to earth in safety. They
dragged me away, but 'twas too late to cheat my miserable vengeance.
That hound was dead, but--my darlings were gone, for ever!”
Another pause, then quieter, more coherent speech.
“God alone knows whither my wife and child were taken. The general drift
was in this direction, but how far they were carried, or how long they
may have lived, I can only guess; enough that, despite all my inquiries,
made far and wide in every direction, I never heard aught of either
balloon or passengers!
“After that, I had but one object in life: to follow along the track of
that storm, and either find my loved ones, or--or some clew which should
for ever solve my awful doubts! And for two long years or more I fought
to pierce these horrid fastnesses,--all in vain. No mortal man could
succeed, even when urged on by such a motive as mine.
“Then I determined upon another course. I worked and slaved until I
could procure another balloon, as nearly like the one I lost as might
be constructed. Then I watched and waited for just such another storm
as the one upon whose wings my darlings were borne away, meaning to take
the same course, and so find--”
“Why, man, dear, you must have been insane!” impulsively cried the
professor, unable longer to control his tongue.
“Perhaps I was; little wonder if so,” admitted Edgecombe, turning that
way, with a wan smile lighting up his visage. “I could no longer reason.
I could only act. I had but that one grim hope, to eventually discover
what time and exposure to the weather might have left of my lost loves.
“Then, after so long waiting, the storm came, blowing in the same
direction as that other. I cut my balloon loose, and let it drift. I
looked and waited, hoping, longing, yet--failing! I was wrecked, here in
this wilderness. My balloon was carried away. I failed to find--aught!”
Cooper Edgecombe turned towards the air-ship, with a sigh of regret.
“If one had something like this then, I might have found them,--even
alive! But now--too late--eternally too late!”