“The young sahib, Arnold, is in the Land of the Golden Scarab,” replied Jai Singh. “It is near, or far, as it may happen. I cannot tell. The people of that land are men who move often.”
“That may be so,” interposed Nick Carter. “But they have a city of their own, with a temple and many people. That much I know.”
“Right,” acknowledged Jai Singh. “If the young Sahib Arnold is there, we can go to him. If he is with some people of the Golden Scarab, somewhere else, we may have to travel long. We shall see.”
“Not much encouragement in that, Carter,” grumbled Jefferson Arnold, as Jai Singh moved away to superintend the building of a fire. “Still, I suppose we cannot do better than to let him lead us on.”
“It is all we can do at present,” was the detective’s reply. “It is safe to trust Jai Singh, but we must let him do it in his own way.”
“I wish his way wasn’t so slow,” interjected Chick. “Anyhow, he is going to give us a breakfast, so we should be thankful for that. He makes good coffee,” he added, sniffing appreciatively.
In a short time Jai Singh set forth a breakfast, from the stores they carried, that might hardly have been expected in such a wilderness.
Not only was there coffee, made with the skill that only the native-born East Indian ever attains, but it was softened with condensed milk kept in small air-tight cans, and sweetened with very good sugar.
There were fruits, all kinds of canned sweetmeats, and some of the dried fish of which so much is used in tropical climates, with curried rice and other viands distinctly Indian.
The four oarsmen had built their fire at a considerable distance, and down the wind, so that its smoke should not annoy the white people.