Johnny Thompson, Jean and Roderick were passing through just such an experience. For hours, many hours, seeing nothing, now led by the hand, now drifting in a dugout, they had traveled. Where were they going? Home? Going to some more remote corner of the Central American jungle where there was no danger of their being discovered?
Not one of the three could so much as guess. They only knew they were going somewhere and were on their way. Such a strange way, too; over paths that were so overhung with vines and palm leaves that they must be constantly dodging to avoid them; now on a small stream where the danger of being caught by vines and dragged overboard was still greater, and now out upon a wider stream where from time to time a sudden burst of sunlight warmed their faces, they traveled on and on. For Johnny especially, the short portages made on foot were extremely difficult, for always he carried his pack on his back. He dared not trust it to another. In its very center was the golden god of the rising sun.
It had turned out strangely, his resolve to have it out with the old chief about allowing them to return to the Rio Hondo. First, by the aid of many small sticks and stones and a tiny artificial stream, he pictured to the young princess his coming up Rio Hondo in search of mahogany, his early success, defeat, a second venture, the treachery of Daego, the probable condition of his camp at the present moment and the need for his speedy return.
He had watched with much concern the face of the chief as his daughter presented the cause to him. That she was telling much, perhaps a great deal too much, he guessed from the changing expression on the old man’s face. A frown was replaced by a smile. This was followed by a look of surprise, if not of consternation.
“She’s not telling about Rio Hondo,” Johnny had whispered. “What do you think?”
“Yesterday. The hidden corridor,” Jean had whispered back.
“That’s exactly it!” Johnny exclaimed.
At once he regretted having entrusted the girl with his mission. “If she tells too much she may get us into greater trouble,” he whispered to Jean, and at that moment he thought of the golden god.
“Of course,” he whispered to Jean, “it’s mine by right of finding. These people did not build this ruined temple, nor did they make or inherit the god. It’s been lost for centuries. Can’t tell about their queer ideas and customs, though.”
Had that plea of the princess gotten them into trouble, or was it getting them out? This was the question which Johnny asked himself over and over as they drifted, blindfolded, down that river in the night.