The young airman had watched the course of the thieving bird, eagle, macaw, crow, or whatever it was. He saw the bird sail along until its glance fell upon the biplane. Then it dropped to one of the wings. The bauble retained in its bill, it walked over to one of the seats, dropped its prize, and began pecking at the seat cushions.
Our hero was on his feet in an instant of time. He ran towards the machine, intent on scaring away the predatory intruder. Dave had picked up a stick. This he hurled at the bird. It gave a sullen croak and took to wing, disappearing on the other side of the hill.
The young airman was curious and interested enough to lean over into the body of the machine and secure the object dropped by the bird. He was viewing it critically and with some comprehension of its use, when his comrades joined him.
“What is it, Dave?” queried Hiram eagerly. “That old fellow below yonder is tearing up the ground and rolling all about in a fearful fashion.”
“I know what it is,” pronounced Dave, “and I think we had better get it back to its owner and save some mischief for him. This is what is called a prayer mill. See, this handle turns a silken scroll on a reel all covered with queer-looking characters. These represent the prayers the Thibetans make to their great idol, Da-Fan-Jan. The priests supply them to the worshippers. They are highly prized. I have read about them, and have seen pictures of these queer prayer mills, as they call them.”
“You’re not going down there to give it back to the native; are you?” asked Hiram; in some surprise, as Dave looked about him to discover the easiest way of descending the hillside.
“Yes, I think I had better,” was the reply. “You don’t know how these superstitious people value such charms. This prayer mill may have been cherished in that man’s family for centuries. It is regarded an heirloom, and the person losing it probably thinks he is condemned if he does not recover it.”
Our hero hurried his steps. Descending the hillside alone he chanced to glance at the native. The man had now arisen to his feet. All his violent manner had disappeared. His face wore a look of sullen despair.
He had taken his spear and fastened its end stoutly under an edge of the boulder in a slanting position. Its keen point showed breast high. The man had retreated some twenty feet. There he stood posed for a run. Dave recalled something he had read of the hari-kari of the rude Asiatic tribes. Suicide, swift and terrible, was the rule where some great loss, disgrace, or bereavement unsettled the mind.
“He means to impale himself with all his force on that spear point and end his life,” decided the young aviator. “Hoi-hoi!”