Toluca arose and walked over to where the two boys were sitting.
“Look here!” Ben went on. “Here’s Toluca now, and I’ll leave it to him if every word I say isn’t true. He can’t talk much United States, but he can nod when I make a hit. Can’t you, Toluca?”
The Indian nodded and Ben went on:
“Between this valley,” the boy explained, “and the face of the mountain against which the fort sticks like a porous plaster is another valley. Through this second valley runs a ripping, roaring, foaming, mountain stream which almost washes the face of the cliff against which the fortress stands. This stream, you understand, is one of the original defences, as it cuts off approach from the north.”
“I understand,” said Jimmie sleepily.
“Now, the only way to reach this alleged mystery of the Andes from this direction seems to be to sail over this valley in one of the machines and drop down on the cliff at the rear.”
“But is there a safe landing there?” asked the boy.
“Toluca says there is!”
“Has he been there?” asked Jimmie.
“Of course he has!” answered Ben. “He doesn’t believe in the Inca superstitions about ghostly lights and all that.”