“Still, it may have happened so?” persisted Bruno, taking a strong interest in the matter. “You would not call it too far-fetched, uncle?”
“No. It may have happened. I would rather call it marvellous, yet still possible. And if so—”
“There is but a single answer to that supposition, uncle; they must be rescued from captivity!” forcibly declared Bruno.
“That's right,” confirmed Waldo. “Of course all women and girls—I mean other people's kin—are a tremendous sight of bother and worry, and all that; but we're white, and so are they.”
“We must rescue them; there's nothing else to do,” again emphasised the elder Gillespie.
“That is no doubt the proper caper, speaking from your boyish point of view, my generous-hearted nephews; but—just how?” dryly queried the professor. “Have you arranged all that, as well, Bruno?”
“You surely would not abandon them, uncle Phaeton?” asked the young man, something abashed by that veiled reproof. “To such a horrible fate, too?”
“A fate which they must have endured for fifteen years, provided your theory is correct, Bruno,” with a fleeting smile. “Don't mistake me, lads. I am ready and willing to do all that a man of my powers may, provided I see just and sufficient cause for taking decisive action. That is yet lacking. We are not certain that there are white women yonder. Or, if white women, that they are captives. Or, if captives, that they would thank us for aiding them to escape.”
“Why, uncle Phaeton! Think of Mr. Edgecombe, and how—”
“I am thinking of him, and I wish to think yet a little longer,” quietly spoke the professor, “keep a lookout, lads, and if you see aught of Waldo's fair women, pray notify me.”