CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAGIC TELESCOPE
There was in Curlie Carson something of the primitive man. Like the American Indian or the Eskimo, if he hunted or prowled half the night, he slept half the next day. The tropical sun was high when he awoke. The particular sound that disturbed his slumbers was the barking of a dog—Dorn’s dog. The dog barked for joy. His young master had returned. With Dorn was Pompee.
They had returned, Curlie heard them tell Dot, because there was no use keeping camp at the Citadel. Nothing ever happened there. Nothing of importance was discovered and the two young adventurers who had induced them to take up camp there were forever getting themselves lost. Just at the present moment they were both lost.
“Curlie Carson is here,” said Dot. “He came upon us in the dark last night. And how glad I am that he did! We—we destroyed the supply ship of the revolutionists. The revolution is over. The bad white man is dead.
“But Dorn,” Curlie heard her catch a long hard breath, “Pluto, the bad black man, is still alive. He saw us last night after it was all over and he understood. I know he did. And now what will happen? Who can tell?”
Curlie had heard enough. His good friend Johnny was lost once more. In the light of the previous night’s events that seemed serious.
“They may have known of our camp,” he told himself. “Going there to waylay me they may have come upon Johnny and taken him instead. That settles it.” There was an air of finality in his tone. “The whistles must do. The drums would have been more dramatic, but there is no time to lose.”
After a hasty toilet and a more hasty meal, he bade good-bye to Dot and Doris, Dorn and Pompee, then went hurrying away over the trail to the Citadel.
Arriving at the grim old fortress just at nightfall, he went at once to his laboratory. From this place, after a half hour of banging and bumping, he emerged laden with packages. Having caught up with his burros he began loading them. After six trips to the laboratory he at last left it with the door ajar which told plainer than words that whatever of value had been there was now safely packed in hampers on the burros’ backs.
Being a good trail hunter he was not long in picking up a fresh scent that, to his great surprise, he found led in the same direction as that taken by the natives who had before spirited Johnny away.