We stared at one another—that is, Bickley and I did, for Bastin was still engaged in contemplating the blackened head of the god which he had overthrown.
CHAPTER IX.
The Island in the Lake
We made the canoe fast and landed on the great rock, to perceive that it was really a peninsula. That is to say, it was joined to the main land of the lake island by a broad roadway quite fifty yards across, which appeared to end in the mouth of the cave. On this causeway we noted a very remarkable thing, namely, two grooves separated by an exact distance of nine feet which ran into the mouth of the cave and vanished there.
“Explain!” said Bickley.
“Paths,” I said, “worn by countless feet walking on them for thousands of years.”
“You should cultivate the art of observation, Arbuthnot. What do you say, Bastin?”
He stared at the grooves through his spectacles, and replied:
“I don’t say anything, except that I can’t see anybody to make paths here. Indeed, the place seems quite unpopulated, and all the Orofenans told me that they never landed on it because if they did they would die. It is a part of their superstitious nonsense. If you have any idea in your head you had better tell us quickly before we breakfast. I am very hungry.”
“You always are,” remarked Bickley; “even when most people’s appetites might have been affected. Well, I think that this great plateau was once a landing-place for flying machines, and that there is the air-shed or garage.”
Bastin stared at him.