THE BIRD OF DEATH
Captain Bassett’s yacht-like schooner did not sail that night. Long
after the camp fire of the spongers on the beach had fallen into a
glow, the Englishman and Andy were in talk in the owner’s cabin. On the
chart before them the compasses were often in play between a dot marked
“Timbado Key” and the unnamed indentation in a long island, where the
boy had written in pencil “Palm Tree Cove.”
At seven o’clock the next morning, two of the black men had brought
up the unloaded can of gasoline. Andy had been taken ashore to the
_Pelican_, two of the more intelligent spongers had been detailed to
assist him, and the schooner was heading out of the cove, its owner on
the after deck waving his Panama to the boy on shore.
A box of cloth, screws, wire, a hammer and saw, candles, tin pans,
and three bamboo fishing poles had been sent ashore with the young
aviator. Before the schooner had rounded the point and laid a course to
the west, the operator of the aeroplane was busy. His shirt sleeves
rolled up, barefooted and hatless, the boy did not seem to mind the
semi-tropic sun. After a solitary luncheon he was at his task again. At
three o’clock he paused――the _Pelican_ a weird and picturesque sight,
her tanks newly filled, her oil cups freshly primed. Whatever her new
mission, she was undoubtedly ready for another flight.
Andy’s fishermen assistants viewed the altered machine with silent
awe. When they had helped to wheel it into an advantageous location
for a new start and had been dismissed, they hurried away, and the boy
was alone. From his actions, the hours were dragging. Four and five
o’clock passed with no signs of a new flight. The impatient Andy made
constant references to the sun and his watch, with now and then little
alterations in the aeroplane’s new equipment.
Frequently the boy also consulted a slip of paper.
“North, northwest,” he would repeat, “and twenty-five miles. At a
minute and a half a mile, that’s thirty-seven and one-half minutes.”
Thirty-eight minutes before Captain Bassett’s calculation of sundown,
at 6:35 P.M., the eager boy at last sprang into his seat, set his
brake, turned on his power, and in thirty seconds the low-hanging
palm leaves behind him, fluttering before his propellers, the now
picturesque _Pelican_ was skimming over the wide reach of Palm Tree
Cove.
At one o’clock that afternoon Captain Bassett’s schooner was tacking
off Timbado Key. When it dropped anchor off the makeshift of a beach
village that its navigator had visited six years before, a few blacks
emerged from the hovels. But no one on the schooner came ashore, and in
the boat there were no signs of activity. The white-costumed Englishman
sat and smoked under the awning. By mid-afternoon the beach was thick
with a curious group.
When the sun was low in the west, a few minutes before seven o’clock, a
small boat shot out from the idle, anchored schooner. As it grounded on
the beach, the semi-savage blacks who had watched the strange boat all
afternoon, moved forward. Captain Bassett, in spotless white, sprang
ashore. He paused only to light a fresh cigar, and then, ignoring the
motley straggling group, he walked quickly to the steps leading to the
plateau.
Here, with only a glance over the sloping sides of the basin and the
stagnant pool at its bottom――its heavy waters already iridescent in the
dying sun――he strode rapidly toward the stockade. As he had seen it
before, the king’s home still stood――the signs of decay more evident,
but the totem palm trunks still erect.
No one blocked his passage, but he did not enter the gate. Still
swaying on the palm trunks, he saw that which sent a chill through
him. He also saw, almost above, but apparently guarding the gate, the
big black who had accosted him on the beach years before. The man was
heavier, there was a brutish kind of fear on his face, but he yet
carried in his belt the one revolver the Englishman had seen on the
island.
“Tell the great thief Cajou the white man is here.”
Captain Bassett uttered these words in a tone that made the big black
start.
“Him no walk,” was the answer in a hesitating voice.
“Tell the great thief Cajou that the white man brings death.”
“Him sick,” faltered the swarthy guardian.
Within the shadow of the filthy stockade court, other men could now
be seen. The white man could see the glare of eyes as if beasts were
crouching in the fast-gathering night.
“Tell the great thief Cajou,” went on the white man――his tone
unchanged, cold and imperative, “that to-night comes the Bird of Death.
He who was robbed of his pearl, to-night brings fetich; to-night, the
white man brings death to the women and children of thieves; to-night,
out of the south, he commands the Bird of Death.”
As he spoke, the Englishman observed almost concealed behind those in
the enclosure, the old African. He was bent now, and as the silent
assembly fell back to give the grizzled savage space, the white man saw
that all he had said had been heard and understood. Two women supported
the ruler of Timbado. Shaking them aside, he felt his way to the gate
on his cane.
“White man come――white man go. No come――no go more.”
“The great thief Cajou hears,” interrupted the unmoving man in white.
“To-night, the white man brings fetich; to-night, out of the sky, he
brings death to those who steal and lie and to the women and children
of those who lie――”
The tottering chief lunged forward on his stick as if to grasp the
white man. But the latter did not move.
“Cajou no thief,” snarled the black. “Him no white man pearl.”
Throwing his head back, the Englishman placed his hands to his mouth
and called loudly into the now shadowed night.
“Come, Bird of Death,” he cried. Then, with a sweep of his right arm
toward the south, he shouted: “Behold!”
Sweeping majestically toward the palm totems out of the already starry
night, came an object with the whirr of a flock of vultures. Like a
great bird, the descending shape already spread its monstrous wings
over the black pool. Its long tail could be seen moving against the
starry sky, while the eyes and throat of its far-extended head seemed
to belch fire and smoke.
Back upon each other crowded those about Cajou. Alone stood the old
man, shaking and aghast. Then out of the mouth of the giant bird came a
cry of rage and the hiss of a snake. Wails and cries of fear rent the
air; groveling on their knees, the occupants of the stockade tried to
hide their heads; even the great black threw himself behind the wall.
Then the angry blood-red eyes of the Bird of Death struck toward the
group, and even the doughty Cajou reeled backward.
“Stop!” shouted the white man. “Stop, Bird of Death! Go!” he cried.
As if balked of its prey, the great creature of the air seemed to
pause. Then, with an almost human snarl, it shot to the left, circled
over the pool and began to mount the skies in apparent flight.
For a moment the sobs and cries of the prostrate were all that could be
heard. The ruler of the tropic key still stood, but shaking in terror.
“White man go,” he mumbled at last. But his defiance was gone. “Cajou
no got white man’s pearl.”
“You lie!” exclaimed the Englishman. Then he held out his hand. “Give!”
he commanded. His tone seemed to wound the black man. “No?” he added
fiercely, as Cajou only cringed.
“Cajou no pearl, no thief,” at last began the African.
“Come, Bird of Death,” cried the white man once more. “Eat the women
and children of the great thief. Come!”
[Illustration: “COME, BIRD OF DEATH!”]
As he spoke, he could see the blood-red eyes turned toward him again;
then he saw the points of fire dip, and he knew the indistinguishable
object was once more hurtling toward the stockade.
There were new cries of terror. Then the hiss and snarl high above
sounded again. Bigger grew the glaring eyes of the Bird of Death, and
then out of its gaping throat came a stream of fire. The roar of the
returning object swept before it.
“Eat black man; eat black man!” came a voice out of the hollow sky.
Amid a hundred shrieks, a terror-stricken form threw itself at the
white man’s feet.
“Cajou lie; Cajou lie,” it wailed. “White man make stop.”
“Come, Bird of Death!” roared the iron-nerved Englishman.
“Eat black woman, eat black baby!” fell again from the clouds.
One more look, and the prostrate Cajou caught at the buttons on his
faded coat, tore the garment loose at the neck, and struck out his
palsied hand.
“Stop!” commanded the man in white, as he shot up his arm to stay
the avenging bird. He could barely see the old man; but he felt
the outstretched hand. Grasping the object in it, he found it still
attached to a cord. With a snap he tore it loose. His fingers closed on
what he knew was a small skin bag. Then with a thrill he felt within
the bag a pear-shaped object. It required no look to tell him what it
was.
“Begone!” he cried. “Cajou saves his people.”
As he spoke, he discharged his revolver over the heads of the prostrate
subjects of the outwitted black man, and there was an answering shout
from the fiery Bird of Death as it swept over the stockade. The Fiend
of the Skies had been thwarted once more by the fetich of the white man
and, with another hiss of rage, its yawning throat yet spitting flames
and smoke, the Bird of Death turned and disappeared seaward.
When it had passed, and Cajou and his people looked again for the
all-powerful white man who had saved them, he was gone. None followed
the retreating ghostlike form of the fetich maker, and as Captain
Bassett felt his way down the bluff steps, he could see fading the red
eyes of the air monster.
On the beach once more, his faithful men and boat ready for him, he
paused, drew the little bag from his pocket and struck a match. There
was but one glance, and he threw the match from him. Cajou had not
deceived him this time. The great pink pearl had come back to its owner.
When the _Pelican_ sailed away from Palm Tree Cove on that eventful
evening, thirty-seven and one-half minutes before sunset, the spongers,
left in open-mouthed wonder, soon began an important task. Dry
driftwood and fallen palm trees were collected until it was wholly
dark. Then fires were started on the beach in two places, to the right
and left of the _Pelican’s_ starting place. A few minutes after eight
o’clock, out of a louder and louder whirr in the starlit skies, with a
rush as of a rising wind, the aeroplane darted beachward.
In the shadows, the daring young aviator, stiff in muscle and worn with
strain, landed in the shallow water. As if newly alarmed, the waiting
spongers hung back. But the tired boy sprang into the water, grasped
the sinking machine, and in a few moments a dozen willing hands had
drawn it high on the white sand. With no attempt to dry his clothes,
and with only a glance at his watch in the glare of the beach fires,
the exhausted boy threw himself on the sand alongside the aeroplane and
was soon unconscious.
When he awoke, it was day, and Captain Bassett was standing over him.
“Come to the schooner,” said the Englishman kindly, “get some breakfast
and a bath and finish your sleep in bed.”
Dazed for a moment, Andy rubbed his eyes, and then sprang into a
sitting posture.
“Did you get it?” he cried eagerly.
The captain smiled, nodded his head, and then looked knowingly toward
the spongers just departing for their day’s work.
“I understand,” exclaimed the boy jubilantly. “It was a peach of an
idea. The old _Pelican_ was all right, wasn’t she?”
Again Captain Bassett smiled and assisted the stiff boy to his feet.
“The idea was all right, but you did the business. She don’t look
so awful now, does she?” and he pointed toward the still bedraggled
aeroplane.
Both broke into laughter. Drooping on the beach, lay the _Pelican’s_
improvised neck and bird head made of lashed bamboo poles. The two
suspended lanterns covered with red calico curtains from the schooner
were far from deceptive in the sunlight. The band of red cloth on a
crude frame beneath these, behind which had hung balls of coal oil
soaked rags (the throat of the marvelous bird) was sagging in the sand.
“Here’s where I touched off the balls,” explained Andy, still chuckling
with amusement. “My oil string fuse ran through these wire loops.”
“When the wind blew the flames down,” said the captain, “it was like
a dragon spitting fire. And that yell of yours! It wasn’t much like a
bird――it was most grewsome. Andy,” he added suddenly and seriously, “of
course, it isn’t necessary to say you’ve done a big thing for me.”
“You don’t need to begin that,” exclaimed the boy at once. “You’ve
helped me and are goin’ to help me some more. That’s enough. But I’d
like to see the pearl.”
Cautiously the Englishman took the bag from his pocket. As the boy’s
eyes fell on the lustrous, pale rose-colored gem, he caught his
companion’s arm. In the shape of a flattened pear and almost an inch
and a half long, the tropic jewel seemed to radiate a glow of life.
“What’s it worth?” whispered the dazed boy.
“Twenty years of isolation in this desolate world,” said the suddenly
sobered Englishman. “In money, it has no price. It is not for sale.”
There was no more rest for Andy that morning. When the _Pelican_ had
been taken apart and loaded on the schooner and Captain Bassett’s crews
of spongers had been embarked in their small boats, it was noon. While
luncheon was served under the awning, the schooner passed out of the
cove on her way to Andros Island.
Physically exhausted and his nerves unstrung, Captain Bassett put
Andy in his bunk at once. When he awoke it was dark, the schooner was
cutting through a moonlit sea and the boy knew it was late in the
night. When he awoke again it was day and the schooner was tacking
among almost countless islands.
A little later Andros Island was in sight. Then a heavily-laden
schooner, freighted with baled sisal hemp and crates of oranges and
pineapples, was hailed by the incoming schooner.
“It’s one of my boats,” explained Captain Bassett, “on her way to
Nassau. We’ll send your cablegram on it.”
“Why not put me aboard?” asked Andy, again lively and full of vim.
“It can’t well take the aeroplane,” explained the Englishman. “Besides,
I want to take you to Nassau myself. I’ll see you properly started for
your own country.”
That was why the daring young adventurer was some days in the rear
of his cablegram. When, in a few days, he did reach the interesting
historic old town of Nassau, he was forced to accept several more
favors from his kindly host. He saw no way of escaping a loan
sufficient to cover his passage by steamer and rail back to Valkaria by
way of Lake Worth, and to pay the freight bill on his aeroplane.
“But I’ll return it,” insisted Andy.
“As you like,” responded his friend, “if you’ll bring it yourself, and
your father, and mother, and spend a winter with me on Andros.”
“And Ba?” added the boy.
“I’ll take care of him as long as he lives, if he’ll come,” was the
Englishman’s answer.
When the big Florida-bound steamer had made her way out past Hog Island
and was in the channel roll, the boy went below to inspect his cabin.
Pinned to the pillow on his bed was an envelope addressed: “Mr. Andrew
Leighton――to be opened at sea.”
Tearing it open, a narrow strip of blue paper dropped in Andy’s hands.
It read: “Royal Bank of Nassau. Pay to Andrew Leighton or order £1,000.
Monckton Bassett.”
* * * * *
The next story in The Aeroplane Boys Series tells how these
adventurous lads made use of a novel aircraft in hunting the
wary Rocky Mountain goats. The title is “Battling the Big
Horn, or, The Aeroplane Boys in the Rockies,” and every boy
interested in hunting will want to read it. These stories can
be bought wherever books are sold. For full list of titles in
this series see advertisement on page 2.
(_Complete catalog sent postpaid on request._)
_Good Books for Boys_
The Boy Fortune Hunters Series
By FLOYD AKERS
The Boy Fortune Hunters in Alaska
The Boy Fortune Hunters in Panama
The Boy Fortune Hunters in Egypt
The Boy Fortune Hunters in China
The Boy Fortune Hunters in Yucatan
The Boy Fortune Hunters in the South Seas
Mr. Akers, in these new books, has at a single bound taken front rank
as a writer for boys. The stories are full of adventure, yet clean,
bright and up-to-date. The first volume tells of the exciting scenes
in the early days of the Alaskan gold fields. The next book takes
“The Boy Fortune Hunters” to the “Canal Zone,” and the third story is
filled with stirring incidents in a trip through Egypt. The fourth book
relates exciting adventures in the Flowery Kingdom, and the fifth and
sixth stories detail further adventures in Yucatan and among the South
Sea Islands.
_Illustrated 12mos. Uniform cloth binding, stamped in three colors.
Stunning colored wrapper._
Price 60 cents each
Every Boy Wants
School-Fellow Days
Designed by
Clara Powers Wilson
[Illustration]
A record book suitable for boys of the upper grammar grades, through
high school, preparatory school and military academy. Striking
illustrations, printed in two colors on specially made, tinted paper
with good writing surface.
=No. 9. Buckram Edition=
Bound in fancy buckram with clever and appropriate cover design, in
three colors and gold. Large 8vo. 192 pages. Handsomely boxed.
=Price $1.25=
=No. 10. Schoolmates Edition=
Swiss Velvet Ooze. Silk marker. Striking box.
=Price $2.00=
=MY GOLDEN SCHOOL DAYS.= For school boys of all ages――with places
and departments for every important item of interest――and containing
appropriate verses and poems. Printed in three delicate colors on
specially made gray paper. Symbolical cover in two colors and gold.
Small 8vo. 100 pages――each decorated. Attractively boxed.
=List Price, $0.60=
Sold Wherever Books Are Sold
_Complete catalog, postpaid, on request_
Every Girl Wants
SCHOOL-GIRL DAYS
Designed by
Clara Powers Wilson
[Illustration]
A school memory book appropriate for girls of the upper grammar
grades through high school, private school and normal school. New and
exquisite illustrations, printed in two colors on specially made,
tinted paper, having a good writing surface.
=No. 7. Cloth Edition=
Bound in fancy cloth with fetching cover design, in five colors and
gold. Large 8vo. 192 pages. In beautiful box.
=Price $1.25=
=No. 8. Classmates Edition=
Swiss Velvet Ooze. Silk Marker. Special box.
=Price $2.00=
=MY GOLDEN SCHOOL DAYS.= For school girls of all ages――with places
and departments for every important item of interest――and containing
appropriate verses and poems. Printed in three delicate colors on
specially made gray paper. Symbolical cover in two colors and gold.
Small 8vo. 100 pages――each decorated. Attractively boxed.
=List Price, $0.60=
Sold Wherever Books Are Sold
_Complete catalog, postpaid, on request_
A Novelty Every Girl Wants
THE GIRL GRADUATE
HER OWN BOOK
Designed by
Louise Perrett and Sarah K. Smith
[Illustration]
In which to keep the happy record of school or college days. There is a
place for everything dear to the girl graduate――class flower, colors,
yell, motto, photographs, autographs, jokes and frolics, social events,
officers, teachers, invitations, baccalaureate sermon, programmes,
presents, press notices, class prophecy and other “doings.”
Twentieth Edition――Revised and Improved
Uniquely decorated on every page with dainty designs in delicate
colorings on pearl gray stationery made especially for this edition;
cover to match with trellis of roses in tints; decorations in gold.
8vo. 200 pages. Beautifully boxed.
=List Price, $1.50=
VARSITY EDITION: Printed in gold ink and dainty colors on special
soft-tinted paper; cover inlay in five colors by John R. Neill; box to
match.
=List Price, $2.50=
DE LUXE EDITION: Full crimson leather; gold edges; silk marker; in gift
box.
=List Price, $3.00=
COMMENCEMENT EDITION: Full levant; hand-made, hand-tooled in gold; silk
headbands, hand-made end sheets; gold edges; boxed.
=List Price, $6.00=
Sold Wherever Books Are Sold
_Complete catalog, postpaid, on request_
_Best Books for Young Folk_
The Daring Twins
By L. FRANK BAUM
The thousands of boys and girls who, as youngsters, read Mr. Baum’s
famous “Oz” books will be delighted with THE DARING TWINS――a story,
not of wonderland, but of real life――real people. It is full of
action――bright and exciting――the adventures keeping the reader between
laughter and tears. _12mo. Illustrated. Fancy cloth binding. Beautiful
Wrapper. Price $1.00 net._
The Aunt Jane Series
By EDITH VAN DYNE
Aunt Jane’s Nieces
Aunt Jane’s Nieces Abroad
Aunt Jane’s Nieces at Millville
Aunt Jane’s Nieces at Work
Aunt Jane’s Nieces in Society
Aunt Jane’s Nieces and Uncle John
“Aunt Jane’s Nieces” chronicles the real doings of real girls in a most
interesting manner. “Aunt Jane’s Nieces Abroad” tells of a delightfully
adventurous trip through Europe, and the third volume describes their
summer holiday on a farm “at Millville.” In the fourth story the
“Nieces” are shown at work in the political arena. The fifth volume
introduces the girls to society and the last story relates further
adventures of these fascinating girls. _Illustrated 12mos. Uniform
cloth binding, stamped in colors, with beautiful colored inlay. Price
60 cents each._
Annabel
By SUZANNE METCALF
A bright, swiftly-moving story of a young girl just blossoming into
womanhood, and of a boy struggling for a start in life.
_12mo. Dainty cloth binding, with inlaid design and six duotone
illustrations. Price 60 cents._
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in
bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.