ZEPH DALLAS AND HIS “MYSTERY”
“Whistling language?” repeated Fred Porter. “Is there one?”
“Aha! didn’t I say I was going to show you something you never heard of before? You bet there is a whistling language!” chuckled Zeph—“and I’m now about to demonstrate it to you. You see these two boys? Well, they are natives of Gomera, the smallest of the Canary Islands. They were raised in a district where at times there is no living thing within sight, and the vast wilderness in the winding mountains is broken only by the crimson flower of the cactus growing in the clifts of the rock.”
“You talk like a literary showman, Zeph Dallas,” declared Fred.
“Well, I’m telling the story as I get it, ain’t I?” demanded Zeph in an injured tone and with a sharp look at Fred, as if he suspected that he was being guyed. “Anyhow, I want to explain things so you’ll understand.” 139
“Go right ahead, Zeph,” insisted Ralph encouragingly, “we’re interested.”
“Well, up among those big stone terraces is the whistling race. They are able to converse with one another at a distance of three miles.”
“That’s pretty strong,” observed Fred. “But make it three miles.”
“A Silvando will signal a friend he knows to be in a certain distant locality. He does it by setting his fore fingers together at a right angle in his mouth, just as you’ll see these two Canaries do in a minute or two. An arrow of piercing sounds shoots across the ravine.”
“Arrow is good—shoots is good!” whispered Fred, nudging Ralph.