“A most fortunate escape,” declared the professor, but suddenly he clapped his hand to his head.
“My hat!” he cried wildly, “I’ve lost another hat.”
“Here it is!” cried Joe, picking up the article of headgear.
He held it up, transfixed by an arrow. The missile had penetrated it and whisked it from the professor’s head without touching him.
“I wouldn’t have lost that for worlds,” said the professor, thanking Joe, and removing the arrow very gingerly.
“One scratch from that arrow would result in death,” he said, in explanation of his extreme care.
He held it out for the boys’ inspection. It had a stone head, discolored by some whitish matter at the tip. The shank of it was about two feet long, with some sort of cloth wrapped around the end to make it fit the blowpipe tightly.
“What kind of poison do they use?” asked Joe.
“An infusion of the St. Ignatius plant, from the beans of which strychnine, our deadliest narcotic, is obtained,” was the response.
“We’d better make a thorough search for any other arrows,” suggested Nat.