Nick Carter nodded thoughtfully. He had heard similar, and even more gruesome, tales himself. He knew these parts of India better than Chick.
“Don’t be too ready to laugh,” he answered. “No white man ever has understood Indian magic—probably never will. When you have never been brought face to face with it, you may not believe it. When you come right to it, you can only wonder.”
“I know,” answered Chick, with a shrug. “I have heard of the Indian fakir who stands in the middle of a wide, open space out-of-doors and throws a rope into the air. The rope straightens out till the top of it is lost in a cloud that gathers in the otherwise clear atmosphere at the fakir’s bidding. Then down the rope climbs a boy, who proves that he is flesh and blood by going around the ring of white people who have been watching, and lets them feel his hands.”
Nick Carter shook his head slowly.
“That is one of the common tricks of the wise men of this country. It has been told so often by different people that I see no reason to doubt it. There are other things done by these fakirs quite as unaccountable. In the face of them, you can hardly deny that there is more mystery in this land than in most others in the world.”
The talk flagged now. It was becoming too hot for conversation, and everybody composed himself for sleep in the shade of the trees.
Nick Carter and Jefferson Arnold would have liked to press on. But they knew traveling was out of the question in the tropical heat of the day.
Soon after sundown they were on the move.
As Nick Carter had remarked, there were rapids not far from where they had stopped for sleep, and it was necessary to carry the boat and stores around the cataract on land, and put it into the river again at a safe distance above.
By the time this was accomplished, the night had advanced so far that Nick was afraid they would not make much more time before daylight.