“That’s what I say,” put in Patsy. “If Leslie is in that heathen city, we’ve got to get him out.”
“It may mean death, remember, Patsy!” suggested Nick Carter.
His impulsive young assistant actually jumped in the air and cracked his heels together, as one of his ancestors might have done at Donnybrook Fair, generations before, when a challenge was thrown out to them.
“What do we care for that?” howled Patsy. “We’ll make it hot for them first. Anyhow, I don’t think it would mean death or anything like that. But we’ve got to get Leslie Arnold.”
Jefferson Arnold reached across to shake hands with Patsy.
“Well, let us look over the situation dispassionately before we take action,” suggested Nick. “We cannot hide from ourselves that Calaman is a cunning and powerful personage, and that his control of the people of that city, where they worship the Golden Scarab, is complete.”
“I just want to get my fingers on that old geezer’s throat if he has hurt Leslie,” muttered Patsy.
“When we went into Shangore yesterday with Calaman and his guards, it was as his guest,” continued Nick. “We found the rascal Pike, who had stolen a hundred thousand dollars from the Arnold Company in Calcutta, and who had taken refuge in Shangore, because he did not think any one could trace him there.”
“That was reasonable enough for him to think,” commented Chick. “Shangore, the capital city of Bolongu, is right over here, in the Himalayas, in a region where few white men have penetrated in many centuries.”
“I don’t believe any have been here till now,” put in Jai Singh, as he looked up from polishing his spearhead with a cloth he had taken from his garments. “At least, not for more than two or three hundred years.”