Part 27 (1/2)

It was Sikaso's turn to be astonished.

”Of a truth the magic of the white man is not as the magic of the black man, but it is good,” he said; ”yes, it is good. In four hours. That is indeed mighty magic.”

”Who can the old man be whom we saw with them?” asked Harry eagerly, his mind no longer containing an ounce of skepticism to the marvels he had seen.

”I have no idea,” rejoined Frank, ”but he was white evidently.”

”I've seen his picture some place, sometime--or some chap that looked a powerful sight like him, only younger,” said Ben, who doubtless had a vague recollection of the once widely distributed photographs of the missing explorer Desmond.

”I am afraid that he was seriously ill, or even dying, from the last glimpse we had of him,” said Frank gravely.

”Why could you not show us more smoke pictures Sikaso?” asked Harry eagerly.

”I have no more of the powder left,” replied the old Krooman bending over his beloved axe and feeling the edge with a critical thumb.

”Moreover, the smoke does not reveal the future.”

There was, naturally enough, no thought of sleep that night, and so excited were the boys that they did not even feel the want of it. A huge shallow pit was dug back in the forest and the ivory taken from the cha.s.sis of the aeroplane and the aerial express wagon cached there and leaves and gra.s.s strewn over the place to make it as inconspicuous as possible. This was done before the aeroplane was got in readiness for the dash to the rescue.

”For,” said Frank, ”old Muley-Ha.s.san, when he finds we have overreached him, may take a fancy to come back and try to wipe us out.”

”Muley-Ha.s.san will not fight with the few men he has left,” sagely remarked old Sikaso; ”when he has many he is brave as a lion, but when his followers are few he fights like the fox with wits against wits and few are his match for cunning.”

As the day-life of the jungle--which has a nightlife as well as a daylight one--as the day-life of the forest began with the first ghostly gray of the dawn the boys swallowed a hasty meal, though they were almost too excited to eat in spite of Ben Stubbs'

insistence that they take some nourishment. At the old sailor's suggestion, too, the car of the Golden Eagle II was packed with food for the castaways, who surely, from the latest glimpse they had had of them, must be in dire straits.

These preparations completed, they clambered into the car of the air-s.h.i.+p and with Frank at the wheel and the old Krooman at his elbow to direct the course they were to take, they left the ground and were soon flying through a breathless environment at sixty miles an hour.

The Golden Eagle II was on her way to the rescue.

”It is the end.”

These words came from the feeble lips of Mr. Desmond as he lay beneath a rough screen of leaves and branches which the boys had erected to keep the heat of the African day from the dying man--for that he was dying they sadly realized.

The excitement of their flight and the peril of the subterranean river had been too much for the enfeebled frame and George Desmond's troubled soul was on its way to more peaceful rest than he had known in many years.

”Is there nothing we can do for you, sir?” asked Billy eagerly, bending over the dying man and taking his hand-which, despite the heat, was as cold as ice, between his.

”Nothing,” whispered Desmond faintly, and then, with a supreme effort, he spoke once more.

”My papers--the history of the Flying Men.”

He feebly indicated that he wished Billy to take them from his s.h.i.+rt.

The young reporter swiftly drew out the yellowed ma.n.u.script and reverently laid it before the fast-fading eyes. A faint smile overspread the aged man's careworn face.

”I commend them to your care,” he said, as though every word now cost him an effort. ”You have told me you are a newspaper reporter--you will see that they are given to the world?”

Billy once more taking the fast pa.s.sing man's hand promised to fulfill this sacred trust.