“I’m not satisfied to sit and wait, Mr. Rhodes. Appleby and I were close friends. Something must be done.”
“Then you do it!” the engineer snapped. He started to leave the office, then paused again. “I’ll put you up here for a day or so, if you’re not too particular about your accommodations,” he told the group. “One of the men will show you to your quarters as soon as the place has been fumigated.”
“Fumigated?” Mr. Livingston’s eyebrows jerked upward. “For insects, you mean?”
“Not exactly. The last occupant died of some unknown disease that’s been knocking the natives off like flies.”
“In that case, we’ll use our sleeping bags and remain out-of-doors,” Mr. Livingston stated. “We have our canvas shelters.”
“Suit yourself,” the engineer shrugged. “The nights here get pretty cold though. After a couple of days, I think you’ll be hitting the trail.”
No one made a reply. The engineer hesitated a moment, and then without saying more, went out of the building. The Scouts saw him descend a series of roughly hewn stone steps into a pit where a dozen natives were at work.
Mr. Livingston made certain that no one loitered near the office, before he spoke. Then he said: “The situation is a lot worse than I expected.”
“Rhodes may be lying!” Ken asserted.
“Do you think Appleby Corning really is dead?” War asked anxiously.