Gingerly enough, as you may imagine, the lads rolled the cylinder toward the end of the filler tube, which now lay extended on the ground. The end of the tube was fitted with a union, which, in turn, was screwed on to the nozzle of the gas cylinder. Then the professor turned on the vapor, of whose power they had just had such a striking example.
With a hiss and a roar the gas poured through the filler tube into the bag, and several small wrinkles, which had developed in its upper surface, began to fill out. Two cylinders were emptied before the professor and Mr. Tubbs announced that the bag was full enough.
The evening passed off quietly. As before, the evening meal was eaten on the ground, and the adventurers utilized the cabin of the Discoverer for sleeping quarters. Old Matco, the Indian, shared the meal, but refused to sleep within the cabin. Instead, he rolled himself up outside, on the substructure, like an animal of some sort. He had the true aborigine’s dislike of sleeping under a roof. It savored to him of a trap possibly.
The old fellow, now that he had become used to aerial navigation, did not seem to object to it in the slightest. He rather appeared to like it, in fact, and took a childish delight in watching the various operations that went on on board. It appeared that he had no intention of detaching himself from the party as yet, and indeed, seemed to have the liveliest gratitude to them for rescuing him from his unpleasant position at the end of the swinging rope.
The professor was of the opinion that Mateo might prove useful to them, so no move was made to urge him to return to his tribe. Indeed, they were now in the country of another tribe of Indians altogether,—so Matco informed them,—a tribe as warlike and resentful of the intrusion of white men as his own. This was not encouraging news, but the adventurers resolved to make the best of it, and guard against surprises by keeping a good watch.
Nothing occurred during the first part of the night, and when Ding-dong and Joe came on duty at midnight the professor and Nat had nothing to report.
“Don’t forget that time you shot at the mule,” warned Nat, addressing himself to Ding-dong.
“Oh, no danger of my doing that again,” Ding-dong assured him; “b-b-b-b-besides, they d-d-don’t have mules in this p-p-part of the country.”
“That’s good logic, at all events,” laughed the professor, who had heard the story of how Ding-dong shot at a mule in mistake for an Indian the night the Motor Rangers camped in the petrified forest in the Sierras.
Ding-dong and Joe marched up and down for some time, without anything occurring to mar the quiet of the night. But on what was, perhaps, the stuttering lad’s twentieth parade around the dirigible, he heard a queer, inexplicable sort of noise coming from the river.