"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 shirt.
The young reporter swiftly drew out the yellowed manuscript 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 passing man's hand promised to fulfill this sacred trust.