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THE MONSTER-HUNTERS
BOOKS BY FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER
U. S. Service Series
Illustrations from Photographs taken for U. S. Government. Large
12mo. Cloth. Price $1.50 each.
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. SURVEY
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. FORESTERS
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. CENSUS
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. FISHERIES
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. INDIANS
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. EXPLORERS
THE BOY WITH THE U. S. LIFE-SAVERS
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON
[Illustration:
_Courtesy of American Museum of Natural History._
A BATTLE TO THE DEATH.
Arsinothere of three million years ago impaling a carnivorous
creodont, somewhat resembling a hyena.]
THE
MONSTER-HUNTERS
BY
FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER
Author of “U. S. Service Series”
WITH FIFTY-THREE ILLUSTRATIONS, MOSTLY FROM
PHOTOGRAPHS LOANED BY THE AMERICAN
MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY
[Illustration: Decoration]
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
Published, June, 1916
Copyright, 1916,
BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
_All Rights Reserved_
THE MONSTER-HUNTERS
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U. S. A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The Author desires to express his appreciation of the consultation
and assistance of Professor Henry Fairfield Osborn, President of
the American Museum of Natural History, New York City, and of the
members of the Scientific Staff of the Museum, especially: Dr.
Frederic A. Lucas, Director; Dr. W. D. Matthew, Curator of Vertebrate
Paleontology; Mr. Walter Granger, Associate Curator of Vertebrate
Paleontology (Mammals); and Mr. Barnum Brown, Associate Curator of
Vertebrate Paleontology (Reptiles). The Author further wishes to
express appreciation for the use of illustrations provided by the
Museum, naming especially the restorations of Mr. Charles R. Knight.
PREFACE
Mystery and marvel are the gates to that wild world where the
Monsters of the past lived out their monstrous lives. Adventure
that carries one into those steaming coal forests, into those black
and reptile-haunted swamps, that sets one face to face with the
sprawling brood of giants, terribly menacing and terribly true, holds
a thrill peculiar to itself. So startling, so madly strange seem the
conditions that we scarcely dare to believe the adventure true, and
then, the slow processes of Time turn one by one the pages of that
age-old book, and the most extravagant flight of the imagination is
outdistanced by facts.
Out to the waste and desert corners of the earth, men go to read
these stories. They find the bones of the colossal gladiators still
locked in their Titanic struggle, though that struggle ended in death
ten million years ago; they find a ruthless war of tooth and claw
made tenfold more ferocious than any combat of living beasts of prey
by the huge bulk, and the terrible offensive and defensive weapons
of those vast animals that the Earth could no longer tolerate.
There is scarcely a place in all the world where a boy cannot find
for himself some tokens of this Age of Monsters, where he cannot
himself be the hunter and the captor of strange things. In this
book all that is told of that grim past is true and every statement
may be taken as scientifically accurate. To show to the boys of the
United States the thrill of discovery in their own country, and the
splendor of the work that their scientists and museum experts are
accomplishing, is the aim and purpose of
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
KILLING THE LAST DRAGON 1
CHAPTER II
THE MONSTERS THAT NEVER WERE 28
CHAPTER III
PIRATES OF THE AIR 52
CHAPTER IV
SEEING THE SEA-SERPENT 81
CHAPTER V
THE MAD ARTIST AT THE SPHINX 116
CHAPTER VI
ACROSS THE DESERT ON CAMEL-BACK 154
CHAPTER VII
FINDING THE ELEPHANT’S GREAT-GRANDFATHER 187
CHAPTER VIII
THE VALLEY OF FOSSIL WHALES 208
CHAPTER IX
THE MARCH OF THE MASTODONS 237
CHAPTER X
THE THREE-TOED HORSE 277
CHAPTER XI
UNDER THE CLAWS OF A DINOSAUR 306
ILLUSTRATIONS
A Battle to the Death _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Dragon Slain by Regulus 20
Scylla of the Seven Heads 20
Merman from the Mediterranean 20
The Dragon of the Drachenfels 20
Monsters Thought Real by the Ancients 20
The Unicorn in China 42
Stegosaurus, the Super-Dreadnought of Old 50
The Largest Creature that Ever Flew 72
A Flying Nightmare of Olden Time 72
Sea-Serpent Attacking a Pirate Ship 82
The Fiercest Monster that Ever Lived 84
The Sharp-Toothed Death 86
The Jurassic Sea-Serpent 86
Combat Between Ichthyosaurus and Plesiosaurus 88
Sea-Serpent Swallowing Sailors 96
The Most Authentic Sea-Serpent 96
Waiting for the Load 158
Roaring at the Weight 158
Rising, Still Protesting 158
Ready for Desert March 158
A Camel Being Loaded with Half-Ton Fossil Cases 158
At the Temple of Qasr-el-Sagha 194
Across the Libyan Desert 194
Zeuglodon, the Primitive Whale 220
Climbing to the Fossils 228
Finding a Sea-Cow Skeleton 228
The Four-Horned Giants at Bay 232
Into the Heart of Mexico 242
Carrying Shell of Glyptodont 242
Pteranodon, Climbing for a Swoop 250
Finding the Eobasileus 256
The Eobasileus or Loxolophodon 256
The American Mastodon 270
The Siberian Mammoth 270
The Mammoth Tusk He Found 276
Uncovering a Frozen Mammoth 276
Finding the Eohippus 292
Eohippus, the Four-Toed Horse 292
Finding the Mesohippus 294
Mesohippus, the Three-Toed Horse 294
Smilodon, the Sabre-Tooth Tiger 302
Museum Camp in Wyoming Bad Lands 308
The Largest of the Titanotheres 308
Herd Crossing Red Deer River, Alberta 312
Museum Boat Camp on Red Deer River 312
Opening (Rear Tent) to Moropus Quarry 322
Inside the Moropus Quarry, Agate, Neb. 322
The Dryptosaurus, a Giant Carnivorous Reptile 328
Unearthing a Saurolophus Skeleton 330
Unearthing a Diplodocus Hind Limb 330
Brontosaurus in his Native Swamp 332
Trachodon, a Duck-Billed Dinosaur 338
A Brachiosaur, Largest of All Land Creatures 346
THE MONSTER-HUNTERS
THE MONSTER-HUNTERS
CHAPTER I
KILLING THE LAST DRAGON
“Father, I want a dragon!”
The shrewd old merchant lowered the evening newspaper he was
diligently reading, and looked over it at his son.
“All right, my boy,” he said with a smile; “go ahead and get one.”
“But I mean a real dragon!”
“About how big, Perry?”
“I’d like one about a hundred feet long, if I could find it.”
“You don’t want much,” was his father’s half-humorous reply, as he
folded the newspaper so that he could read the next column with more
ease. After a few moments, pursuing the subject, he continued,
“Is there any particular breed of dragon that you’re after?”
“What I really want,” the boy answered, “is one of those spiny
ones—the sort Uncle George discovered out West.”
The keen old financier looked thoughtful, then deliberately took off
his reading-glasses, laid down the paper and turned to the boy.
“You’re talking about fossil monsters, then,” he said.
“Yes, Father, that’s it exactly. And I do hope you’ll let me do it!”
The boy’s earnestness was evident, and he knew he could count on his
father, for they had always been close friends.
“Let you do what?” the merchant queried in response. “I suppose all
this preamble about a dragon means that you have some crazy notion in
your head. Come along, son, tell me all about it.”
This was the chance for which Perry Hunt had long been waiting, and
he snatched eagerly at it.
“There’s a chap I know,” he sputtered, “who’s going ’way out to the
South Dakota Bad Lands to prospect for fossils. He’s a freshman at
Princeton, and it’s their expedition. He told me he was sure he would
be able to take me along, if I could fix things up at my end. I’ve
always been wild to go fossil-hunting, Father, and this is a real
chance. Can’t I go?”
Mr. Hunt tapped the ash from the end of his cigar and looked
inquiringly at his son.
“What in thunder do you know about fossils?” he asked, abruptly.
Perry colored. He was inclined to be shy about the things for which
he really cared, and he had never before talked to his father about
his hobby. The great secret of his boyhood had been a passionate
interest in the strange creatures which used to wander over the
earth, millions of years before the first man. Mr. Hunt had a sharp,
quizzical tongue, and Perry was afraid of being misunderstood and
ridiculed. Now, however, the time for concealment was past and he
spoke up valiantly.
“I’ve read nearly everything I could get hold of, along that line,”
he replied, “and I’ve hung around our little Museum a lot. The
curators and everybody have been bully to me down there, and they’ve
let me putter about in the workshops. I really have learned quite a
bit about fossils, Father, and Mr. Cavalier has shown me how to draw.
I’ve drawn heaps!”
“The deuce you have!” the other commented. “Got any of those drawings
still?”
The boy nodded.
“Let me see them, Perry—that is, if you don’t mind.”
Still a little flushed with confusion, the boy went to his own room
and came back a few minutes later with a sketch-book. His father
turned over the pages. The drawings covered a period of several
years, and though the first were crude, the later ones were quite
well done. Those dated during the last year showed the results of
real study. There was no doubting that the lad had picked up a fair
knowledge of gross anatomy in following his hobby.
Most of the pictures were copies from illustrations in scientific
books or were drawn from models in the Museum. But there were a
few, here and there, that were just fancy, idle sketches drawn for
amusement’s sake. Over one of these—a picture-book dragon with scales
and a snaky tail—the old merchant paused, smiling. Several minutes
elapsed before he turned the page. He went through the book twice
without saying a word. At last he spoke.
“In the second drawer from the bottom, in that cabinet,” he said,
pointing to an old cupboard which Perry had never seen unlocked, and
at the same time handing a key to the boy, “you will find a large
book bound in faded green leather. Bring it here.”
Although rebuffed by his failure to get a direct answer to his appeal
for permission to go on the expedition, Perry took the key. He felt
that, in some way, his present quest was connected with the question
he had raised, and as he unlocked the cupboard, the boy wondered. In
the drawer he found the faded book, with its cover of green Russian
leather all dry and crumbling to the touch, and brought it to his
father. Still without comment, the old merchant slowly untied the
string that held the covers of the ancient book together, and opening
it carefully, turned to the first page.
There, drawn with childish detail, was a picture of a dragon such as
men in the Middle Ages believed that creature really to be, with two
legs armed with claws, spiked wings, a long powerful tail, scales,
and a ferocious-looking head with jaws wide open, disclosing pointed
teeth, while from the throat, flames and smoke were pouring in
volumes.
The boy looked up.
“Why, Father—” he began.
With a faint smile, the old merchant pointed to the date at the
bottom of the drawing, its pencil marks so faint as to be almost
indistinguishable.
“I must have been nine years old, then,” he said. “I can remember
well when I drew that beast. Father had a queer old Latin book, a
sort of mediæval natural history, and it gave a drawing of every
supposedly known beast in the world. This was one of them. At that
time I believed that a dragon was as real as a lion or an elephant.
To tell you the truth, Perry, I’ve never quite got away from the
feeling of that old book of Aldrovandus, his beasts were so much a
part of my childhood. When I was a youngster I was convinced that any
adventurous boy could find plenty of dragons like this one, if he
only went to the right place to look for them.”
“And did the book tell you where to look?”
“It did, exactly. It described a region south of Ethiopicus—that was
Upper Egypt—where a vast region was uninhabited by men because of the
presence of three or four of these monsters. I was determined to go
there some day and kill a dragon.”
“And you took it all in, Father?”
“Why not? Only a couple of years before, Stanley rescued Livingstone
in the first great exploration across Africa. The region that
Aldrovandus wrote about, north of the Victoria Nyassa, in my day was
still an absolutely unexplored territory. Anything might be there,
even dragons.”
“I should think you’d have known there weren’t any real dragons,”
protested Perry, with the cocksureness of a boy.
“I had sense enough to know that I didn’t know it all,” said his
father with a snort, emphasizing the personal pronoun. “Why even in
your lifetime, boy, scientists have found an animal that no one had
ever heard of before, still living in the African forests.”
“What was that, Father?”
“The okapi, a sort of giraffe with daggershaped horns and striped on
the legs something like a zebra. And that discovery is a good example
of the sort of thing I mean.
“Naturalists once used to laugh at some of the old pictures on
the Egyptian temples which showed a beast like a cross between an
antelope and a zebra, with stripes. One of the heads of the god Set,
too, was unlike any animal known in the world. But when, in 1901, the
first okapi was caught by Sir H. H. Johnstone in the Semliki forest
in Uganda, it was found that the old Egyptians of three thousand
years ago were right, and that the modern naturalists were wrong in
their disbelief. So you see, Perry, lots of things are possible that
one would never expect.”
“But a dragon, Father! It’s such a made-up sort of beast—wings,
teeth, snake’s tail and all that sort of thing!”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that,” his father answered, “there are
plenty of dragons with wings, teeth and a snake’s tail, and, what’s
more, Science calls them dragons. _Draco volans_, the flying dragon,
that’s their real name, my boy. But they are all small, none of them
more than ten inches in length, including the tail.”
“Never heard of them,” said Perry, incredulously.
“If you don’t want me to think you a born idiot,” his father answered
sharply, “don’t let me catch you taking that tone, suggesting that a
thing doesn’t exist because you don’t know about it. There are a few
million things that you don’t know now, and when you get older and
have more sense, you’ll find a few million more things that you don’t
know.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” the boy said, in a milder tone. “I didn’t mean
to be uppish. Won’t you tell me about the ‘flying dragon’?”
“They are small lizards,” his father answered, “living throughout
Malasia and in Madagascar. They have a long lizard-like tail, four
inches in length, a fierce-looking head with a frill around it to
make them look ferocious, and the skin from the body to the four legs
is stretched out like that of a flying squirrel. If they were bigger,
they could play the dragon’s part well enough. But, as I was saying,
in my young days there wasn’t any good reason why I should disbelieve
the dragon. Aldrovandus said he possessed the skin of one, and that
seemed good enough proof for me. Yet I think I would have said less
about my belief in dragons, if I had any idea where it would land me.
I don’t think I ever told you the story of my fight with a dragon,
did I?”
“A real sure-enough fight?”
“An actual fight with an actual dragon,” said his father, with a
smile.
“But how could you?”
“I did have one, just the same.”
“I don’t understand you a bit. Won’t you tell the story, Father?”
Without answering directly, the old merchant turned over page after
page of the drawing-book, its pages browned and the pencil-sketches
faded with age, but all filled with dragons—every kind of dragon that
the boy of forty years ago had been able to discover or invent. At
last he stopped before a picture of a weird beast, that looked like
a cross between a man-eating tiger, a Chinese dragon, an alligator,
and a boa-constrictor, which was breathing out fire and smoke as
though it had a gas-works in its inside. In front of the dragon was
represented a small boy, about as tall as the dragon’s claw was long,
and the youngster was sticking a knife as big as himself into the
monster’s breast. In the near distance, quite out of perspective,
were a number of people running away in terror.
“There,” the old merchant said, with a mixture of amusement and
complaisance, “that was the beast I fought. Isn’t that a sure-enough
dragon for you?”
After his former rebuke, Perry was a little dubious about seeming too
skeptical, but he could not help saying:
“Well, that’s hardly a photograph, is it, after all?”
“No,” his father answered, “it’s not. I suppose I’ll have to admit
that it is partly imaginative. But the dragon I fought was something
like that.”
“You’ve got me guessing,” the boy admitted. “Won’t you tell me the
story, Father? It ought to be a great yarn.”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” the other agreed, “since I’ve led you on
so far.” He reached out for a new cigar, clipped it, lighted it, and
when sure that it was drawing properly, leant back in his chair and
began.
“I suppose I was about thirteen years old,” he said reminiscently,
“when this famous combat was held. At that time my folks were living
at a small place called Proctor’s Cave, on the Green River, in
Kentucky, not far from the Mammoth Cave. As you probably know, Perry,
that whole section is just riddled with caves, made by the gradual
dissolving of the limestone rock through the action of underground
rivers. Most of them, too, are full of stalactites.
“Proctor’s Cave, right on the river, was quite a growing town, and
though it was small, there was a right smart heap of children in
proportion to its size. About thirty-five boys around my age went to
the school there. I can remember the number because we were divided
into two gangs. Ours had fifteen members and the other had twenty.”
“I suppose you were ‘boss’ of your gang, Father?”
“I was the ‘War-Chief,’” was the smiling response. “Our gang was
called the ‘Indians’ and the others were the ‘Pioneers.’ You can see
that it was natural for us always to be ready for a fight. Everything
was taken in good part, though, until one day we caught one of the
chaps in the other gang and scalped him.”
“You didn’t really scalp him!”
“No, not exactly. There were limits, Perry, even in my young days.
But the victim thought it was genuine. That’s where the trouble came
in.”
“How was it, Father?” pleaded the boy, fairly wriggling with
excitement.
“As I remember,” the old merchant continued, musingly, “a week or
so before, the ‘Pioneers’ had got hold of one of our gang and had
given him the ‘third degree.’ They said that if he was an ‘Indian’
he ought to look like one. To make sure of it, they gave him a coat
of war-paint with some stuff they got from a drug store, and the
war-paint wouldn’t wash off. It wouldn’t even scrape off. It was
nearly a month before it wore off.
“Our turn came when this ‘Pioneer’ was delivered into our hands.
We told him we were going to have our revenge, and I tell you, he
was scared stiff! We brought the youngster to our own private
‘Indian’ cave, and there we discussed tortures, so that he could hear
what was being said. Each one of us had some kind of torment more
excruciating than the last.”
“It sure must have been blood-curdling to the chap who was
listening,” put in Perry, with an appreciative grin.
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” his father agreed. “Finally, we came to
a formal decision and informed the victim that he was to be scalped
alive. You should have heard him yell! However, yelling didn’t do any
good, for the cave was half a mile from town and a couple of hundred
feet underground, and he would have had to hoot like a Mississippi
River steamboat in order to be heard at all. So we went ahead and
scalped him.”
“How, Father?” queried the boy, eagerly.
“We made quite a ceremony of it,” was the reply. “First of all, we
gathered a lot of stinging nettles that grew outside the cave and
mashed them up with vinegar in an old tin can. The vinegar, you know,
holds the sting; it even seems to make it stronger. Then, in an old
iron pot we had, we mixed up a lot of corn syrup and red ink—we
always used that in our initiation powwow, and it certainly did look
and feel like blood.
“Next we blindfolded the unfortunate ‘Pioneer.’ We dipped a piece of
string in the nettle juice and tied it loosely round his head, and
sprinkled his head with the nettle vinegar, knowing that it would
only take a minute or two before it began to sting. Then we took
his cap, dipped it into the red ink and syrup, and clapped it—not
boiling, but still fairly hot—on his head. At the same instant, one
of the ‘braves’ stuck a bit of stick in a loop of the nettle-soaked
string and twisted it tight, also running his thumbnail around, as
if it were a knife. The cap and the blindfold were then yanked off
together.
“The youngster gave just one look. He saw the cap, all blood, in the
other fellow’s hand, and jumped to the conclusion that it was his
scalp. The tight string around his forehead felt like a cut and the
nettles began to sting like blazes. He put his hand up to his head,
felt the sticky wetness, looked at his hand, all red, let out an
earpiercing screech, and started to run. That was forty years ago,
but I believe he’d have been running yet, if he hadn’t bumped into
some one on the road.
“Help! I’ve been scalped!’ he yelled.
“I reckon he must have given the farmer a jolt, for while we were
a good way from the Indian country, still there were plenty of
‘hostiles’ about, and any day there might be a raid. This was about
the time of the Little Big Horn Massacre.”
“You mean Custer’s last stand?”
“Yes. So, you see, the farmer had reason enough to be startled.
As soon as he had a good look at the boy, though, he saw that the
youngster was only frightened. He cut the nettle string from the
lad’s head, washed off in the nearest brook as much of the red ink
and corn syrup as he could, and started for town.
“I thought we were in for real trouble, but to do that boy’s father
plain justice, I’ll admit he was a good sport. Though he was as mad
as a hornet, he was fair. He gave me a good tongue-lashing, and told
me—which was true—that I ought to have had more sense, as the boy
might have been killed with fright. He repeated to me the old story
of the man who was ordered to be beheaded, and who died when a cup of
cold water was dashed on his neck in joke. Still, he said it was a
boys’ row, he remembered when he was a boy himself, and it wasn’t his
business to interfere. He added that he hoped I would get my medicine
from the other gang, twice as hot as I had given it.”
“That was fair enough, Father.”
“Indeed it was. But even he was satisfied with what I got in return.”
“What was it?”
The old merchant rolled up his sleeve to the shoulder, and showed his
son a white scar running down almost the whole length of the upper
arm. The wound had evidently been a deep one.
“I got that from the dragon,” he said.
“You’d a real fight, then?” ejaculated Perry, surprised at this
evidence of an actual encounter.
“I was laid up for nearly a month,” was the reply. “But they didn’t
build any statues to me as they did to St. George, when he slew the
dragon, and no one gave me a triumph, as the people of Rome did to
Regulus over his combat with a monster.”
“I never heard of the Regulus story,” Perry said.
“It wasn’t a story,” his father corrected him, “it was a real fight,
like mine. Or at least it was said to be a real fight. Regulus sent
home the skin of his dragon, and it was carried before him in his
triumph.”
“But I thought all those dragon fights were just fairy tales!”
“Most of them are,” his father answered. “With the exception of
mine, I think Regulus’ fight with the dragon is the only one that is
supposed to be attested by history. Do you want to hear about it?”
“I’d rather hear yours,” Perry replied.
“I’ll come to that presently,” the merchant assured him, “and the
story of Regulus may put you in the right frame of mind to hear about
my prowess.
“Marcus Atillius Regulus, almost the only historical character to
have fought with a dragon,” he began, “bore one of the noblest names
in Rome. You may have learned in school, Perry, how he ravaged the
shores of Africa and brought Carthage into subjection, but that, at
the last moment, he was defeated. As a prisoner, he was sent by
Carthage on an embassy to make peace, upon his own honorable promise
to return to his foes to die by torture unless his embassy of peace
was successful. On arriving at Rome, Regulus gave the message with
which he had been entrusted by the Carthaginians, but ended with a
patriotic appeal to Rome not to let their affection and loyalty to
him overtop their honor.
“‘Let the prisoners be left to perish unheeded,’ he said, ‘let war
go on till Carthage be subdued.’ His counsel prevailed, the offers
of peace were refused, and Regulus returned voluntarily to Carthage.
The Romans have enshrined the name of Regulus high in the pages of
honor, but the Carthaginians had little understanding of valor and
good faith. They cut off his eyelids, placed him in a barrel spiked
with nails, knocked the head of the barrel out and fastened him there
so that he was immovable. Even his hands were tied. Then they exposed
him, naked, to the glare of an African sun, to die by the slow
agonies of thirst, fever, the scorch of the sun upon the unprotected
eyeballs, and the stinging insects of the desert.”
“But Rome got back at them?”
“Yes,” his father answered, “Scipio Africanus captured Carthage,
leveled every house to ground, sowed salt on the ruins and in the
name of Rome forbade any building to be erected there again. But I’ve
told you the story of Regulus, son, so that you might see that such a
man was scarcely likely to invent a story about a dragon to help his
reputation.”
“Where did he fight the dragon? In Africa, too?”
“Not very far from Carthage. It was in the year 256 B.C., after
the first Punic War had been raging for eight years, that Regulus
captured the city of Utica, about sixty miles northwest of Carthage,
near the modern city of Tunis. Between Utica and Carthage flowed a
river, then called the Bagrada, difficult to cross except at one
ford. When Regulus and his soldiers came to this ford, they found the
passage disputed by an enormous dragon, one hundred and twenty feet
long.”
“A real monster!” ejaculated the boy.
“Wasn’t he? And, so the old Roman historian tells, the skin of the
monster was so tough that the Romans could not pierce his hide.
Several times Regulus led the attack upon the dragon, but each time
the beast killed and devoured several of the soldiers. At last
Regulus brought up the artillery, the ballistæ and catapults, and
bombarded the dragon. Supported by the artillery, Regulus plunged
across the river alone, fought the dragon single-handed and slit his
throat. The skin was carried to Rome and graced Regulus’ triumph.”
“What do you suppose it really was?” queried the boy.
“I think,” his father answered, “it must have been a huge crocodile.
That would explain why the Roman swords could not pierce the
so-called dragon’s hide, and why the combat seems to have taken place
at the ford of a river.”
“But a hundred and twenty feet long, Father!”
“Possibly that was worked out from the skeleton. In those days it
would be quite easy to put the backbones of several animals together.
That trick was done only thirty years ago, when Dr. Albert Koch
collected the bones of two or three Zeuglodons or primitive whales
and made a monster which he called ‘Hydrarchus, the Water King,’
and which he exhibited all over Europe. Regulus’ dragon, carried
in his triumph, might have been something of the kind. As for the
Zeuglodons, I’ve often thought that the discovery of skeletons of
antediluvian beasts might have been one of the reasons for popular
belief in dragons.”
[Illustration: DRAGON SLAIN BY REGULUS.
SCYLLA OF THE SEVEN HEADS.
MERMAN FROM THE MEDITERRANEAN.
THE DRAGON OF THE DRACHENFELS.
MONSTERS THOUGHT REAL BY THE ANCIENTS.
These pictures are taken from professedly scientific works of the
Middle Ages.]
“Was yours one of that kind?”
“Mine,” said his father, with a twinkle in his eye, “was a real
dragon.”
“But it couldn’t be, Father. You said the other gang had something to
do with it!”
“They unearthed him from his lair,” the other answered. “I suppose
I’ll have to tell you just how it all happened, Perry, and then
you’ll see if you don’t think I deserve a triumph, just as much as
Regulus did!”
The boy waited expectantly, and, in a moment, his father continued:
“All that summer, the summer after the scalping, I was on the lookout
for squalls, but nothing happened. The ‘Pioneers’ didn’t seem to be
trying to get their revenge, or if they were trying, we were too much
on the alert. I afterwards found out that they had been laying plans
all summer, but that none of them had worked. It was not until the
autumn that their plot came to a head.
“One evening, late in October, when it was already beginning to get
dark early, I was delayed in going to the cave. It was one of the
regular evenings for a meeting and we had something very important
to do—I forget what, now—so I was running at a good clip. Just as I
struck the little hidden path that diverged toward the cave, I heard
the fellows talking loudly, in excited tones. Wondering what could
have happened, for it was one of the rules always to approach the
hiding place in silence, I quickened my run still more, and in a
minute or two, burst upon the fellows who were gathered in a clump
not far from the entrance to the cave. The second I appeared, three
or four of them shouted, in a breath:
“‘Chief! There’s a dragon in the cave!’
“I told you, Perry, that I’d always done a lot of talking about
dragons, and this ought to have made me suspicious. But I’d been
reading, a day or two before, about Regulus, and all my early
interest had been suddenly awakened. As I look back on it now, I
don’t think doubt even entered my mind. The gang was evidently so
scared that the scare got into my bones, too.
“I found out that one of the smallest of the boys had come early and
gone into the cave, and that he had rushed out again, screaming to
another fellow, who was just coming up the path, that in the cave
there was a huge dragon, with a shining tail, breathing out flames.
He said it had roared at him and that it was as long as a barge.
“The older boy, he was ‘Chief Brave’ and second in command of the
gang, had laughed at him, picked up a chunk of wood for a club, and
started for the opening. Half-way down, he heard the growling of some
beast and his courage oozed out. Without going in to see what it was,
he bolted out again as promptly as the little lad had done. He was
afraid the dragon would follow him, but nothing appeared. None of
the rest of the gang had volunteered. They waited for me to show up,
and tell them what to do. It wasn’t that I was any bigger, son, but,
after all, I was ‘War Chief’ and it was my part to lead them on.
“If there had only been the little fellow’s story,” the old merchant
continued, “I don’t think I’d have felt the same way about it. But
the ‘Chief Brave’ was not only a plucky sort, but I depended a good
deal on his judgment. As I saw it, there was only one thing to do,
and that was—to face the monster and find out what could be done. If
I could really slay a dragon, I thought, I should go down in history
with Siegfried and Beowulf and all the rest of them. So I loaded
an old horse pistol that we had, and, more for show than anything
else, stuck a bowie knife in my belt and started into the tunnel-like
opening of the cave, the gang following cautiously behind.
“I tell you, my boy, it was mighty uncomfortable, creeping through
that long, black passage, hearing nothing but the hard breathing of
the frightened fellows behind. And when, about halfway down, the
silence was suddenly broken by a savage, whining snarl, I had a
feeling that ice was being rubbed down my spine. It wasn’t quite my
idea of a dragon’s roar, it was worse, there was such an evil relish
in the sound that the flesh under my hair just crawled.
“If I had been alone, I’d have done the same thing as the others did,
I’d have turned tail and got out of that place as quickly as I could.
But the gang was behind me. I was afraid, afraid to death, of that
snarl in front, but the fear of ridicule was even stronger. I would
rather be clawed to death by a dragon than be guyed as a coward. So,
gripping the pistol closer, I crawled forward.
“I think I could have walked with more confidence, but on hands and
knees, it was ghastly. I could put my hands out without difficulty,
but the fear sent a spasm into my knees so that it was hard to move
them. Still, foot by foot, ever hearing that malignant whine grow
closer, I groped my way through the opening. It was only fifty feet
long, but it seemed interminable. At last I saw the light and, with
a huge sense of relief, leaped from the narrow tunnel into the cave
itself.
“I leaped almost into the monster’s jaws. For, facing the mouth
of the tunnel, not six paces away, was the dragon, growling and
snapping, while every few seconds he followed the clash of the
gnashing teeth with that long whining snarl that had so scared me
during that endless crawl in the dark.”
“What did he look like, Father?”
“In the half-dusk of the cave he looked fearful! In my excitement
he looked every inch a dragon. The front part of him was like a
wolverine, and his body all glittered with silver scales. Behind him
he dragged a thick tail, something like an alligator’s, only round,
all covered with shiny scales.”
“How about the fire-breathing business?”
“I didn’t stop to notice. I was too excited and too frightened to
bother myself with thinking what breed of dragon he was. I aimed
the old pistol and fired. The ‘kick’ of it nearly broke my wrist.
At the same instant, the dragon lifted himself heavily, dragging his
hinder part, and launched full at me. I shrank back, flat against the
wall of the cave, and his spring fell short. The hot froth and blood
on his fangs slathered on my coat, and I knew that the monster was
badly hurt. There was little room to dodge in that cave, but I jumped
sideways.
“He turned jerkily, and I saw that his huge tail was injured. For the
first time, my spirits rose. It was his tail I had feared. I had been
afraid that he would lash out with it, crushing me to pieces. If,
however, he were already hurt, I might be able to dodge about him,
and get the best of him yet. But he could move quicker than I thought.
“Before I realized it, he was on me. Again he sprang, with that
curious dragging of his hinder parts as though they were paralyzed.
I had no room to dodge away, for the wall of the cave was behind me.
In desperation, I pulled out my bowie knife. Before I could lunge,
however, a paw with curved claws like Turkish daggers flashed out and
laid my left arm open to the bone.
“Reeling from pain and the loss of blood, I struck forward with the
knife. I hit some kind of a bone, I remember, then felt the curious
sense of the blade piercing through living flesh. Again the monster
reared. I swayed back, too far gone to move my feet, which seemed
fastened to the floor of the cave. But as I stared, almost fascinated,
into the green light of the creature’s eyes, I saw a glaze pass over
them. He reared, wavered and fell over in a heap. Almost I collapsed
upon him myself, but as I tottered, one of the fellows sprang out
from the mouth of the cave and caught me. He snatched the bowie to
give another blow, but the dragon never moved again. My knife had
reached the heart.”