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No. 133. NEW YORK, March 27, 1915. Price Five Cents.

WON BY MAGIC;
Or, NICK CARTER’S MYSTERIOUS EAR.

Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

CHAPTER I.
THE COMING OF JAI SINGH.

“Message for Mr. Carter!”

The wireless operator of the steamship Marathon, in the linen clothes and pith helmet ordinarily worn by white people in the tropics, came along the steamer deck with a slip of paper in his hand and stopped in front of a row of steamer chairs under an awning.

“Where’s it from?” asked the occupant of one of the chairs, springing to his feet.

“From shore, sir—Calcutta.”

Nick Carter, who was holding out his hand even as he got up from his chair, took the paper quickly and glanced at the few words it contained:

“Get up to Nepal quickly.”

That was all. There was no signature, and the operator could not say who had sent it.

“It came from the main office of the telegraph company in Calcutta,” he explained. “The operator told me a native man brought it in and paid for it. He said there would be no answer, and his own name did not matter.”

“It is many years since I was in Calcutta last,” observed Nick Carter, to his companions, as the operator went back to the wireless room. “Then it was only for a few days, and I did not make many acquaintances.”

A tall, middle-aged man, whose square face and straight-seeing dark eyes, as well as his decided manner of speech, were all suggestive of the successful American business man, got up from one of the chairs and looked over Nick Carter’s shoulder at the telegram he still held open in one hand.

“Get up to Nepal quickly,” he read. “Does that mean that my boy is there, do you think, Carter?”

“We don’t know that the telegram has anything to do with what has brought us to India,” replied the detective.

“What else could it be?” demanded the other sharply.

Nick Carter shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, Mr. Arnold, you are known here—by name, at least—as owner of several ships, including the Marathon, and your agent, William Pike, has vanished, in a rather mysterious way, from your office in Calcutta. Perhaps the telegram may be from somebody who has seen Pike up in Nepal.”

“It may be, although I don’t know what Pike could want up in the back country, away from civilization. He isn’t that kind of man, from what I know of him. He is more likely to go over to Europe, or, if not, to get to some other big city in India—Rangoon, Lucknow, Cawnpur, or Hyderabad—where he can spend his money and be moderately out of the way of arrest.”

“At all events, this message agrees with our own ideas of the direction taken by Leslie,” said Nick Carter.

Jefferson Arnold did not speak for a few moments. He was not a demonstrative man, and although his heart was wrung by the strange disappearance of his only son, his face was as impassive as it generally was when putting through some great business deal in New York, with perhaps millions of dollars involved.

Here, on the deck of the finest steamer of his fleet of merchant vessels, with the gently rolling waters of the Bay of Bengal scuffing up under the prow, and the engines, at half speed, gradually bringing the ship nearer and nearer to the wharves of Calcutta, he might have seemed to strangers to be a man to be envied.

Yet, tearing at his heart was the greatest anxiety he ever had known—the question whether his boy, whom he loved better than himself, was dead or living.

The scene was as beautiful a one as nature can produce in her most happy mood. The blue waves, with their lacy-white crests, the panorama of mountain and forest in the distance—still hazy, as the mists of early morning hung before them—and the big city of Calcutta in the foreground, its white buildings glistening fairylike in the glorious sunlight, all combined to make the approach to this famous Asiatic port one of the most fascinating in the world.

“What’s that boat coming out?” suddenly exclaimed Jefferson Arnold. “Couldn’t wait for us to get alongside the wharf, eh! We’re five miles from shore, if not more. What do you make of it, captain?” he added, in a louder tone to the skipper of the Marathon, who stood on the bridge just over their heads.

“Don’t know, Mr. Arnold,” replied Captain Southern. “Perhaps they’re crowded for room at the wharf. Looks like it.”

The commander had been gazing at the oncoming boat, as well as at the distant shore line, through his binoculars, and, almost mechanically, he gave orders to drop the anchors fore and aft.

“Going to stop, captain?” asked the millionaire ship owner.

“Yes. It will do no harm. And I want to see what these fellows in the boat are after.”

“I’ll come up on the bridge. I guess,” grunted Arnold. “Come on, Carter!”

The sacred bridge of a steamer is not going to be profaned by the feet of an uninvited person unless he happens to be the owner or some one of equal importance.

Jefferson Arnold and his friends, of course, had the privilege.

One of two young men who had been sitting in steamer chairs with Arnold and Nick Carter seemed to have some idea of following them to the bridge. But the elder of the pair shook his head.

“It wouldn’t do, Patsy,” he whispered. “Old Captain Southern is a crank about some things, and he looks on his bridge as a sort of private office. Let the chief size it up and tell us afterward.”

“I guess we’ll have to, Chick,” was the disgusted response. “But when I’m working on a case I like to see all I can from every angle.”

“Regular angleworm, ain’t you, Patsy?” chuckled Chick.

“Oh, come off with the laughing-gas stuff! Better send that to the funny papers,” snorted Patsy Garvan. “I’m talking serious business. I tell you there’s more in young Leslie Arnold beating it out of Calcutta this way than people think.”

Chickering Carter, principal assistant of Nick Carter, stared for a moment at Patsy Garvan, who was only next in importance to Chick himself on the great detective’s staff—as if trying to get his comrade’s point of view. Then he shook his head, as if he feared there was a great deal in Patsy’s opinion.

“What do you think of William Pike?” he asked, as he glanced around to make sure neither Nick Carter or Jefferson Arnold overheard the question.

“What do I think?” blurted out Patsy. “I believe he’s the guy responsible for it all. From what I hear, he always was as crooked as a pig’s tail. Leslie Arnold was a good-tempered sort of kid, and it wouldn’t be hard for this slippery Pike to make him do anything.”

“And there was nearly a hundred thousand dollars in gold went with one or the other of them,” observed Chick thoughtfully. “If Leslie Arnold went up into the hill country to shoot tigers, he would hardly load himself down with all that money.”

“Who believes young Arnold went to shoot tigers?” asked Patsy scornfully.

“That’s all Jefferson Arnold has been able to hear about his boy,” was Chick’s answer. “He told that to the chief when he persuaded him to come all this distance to look into the matter.”

“Well, I’m glad he came, anyhow,” observed Patsy. “I’ve never seen India before, and it was a good thing he brought us both along. And old Captain, too. Gee! I didn’t think he’d let the good old dog come. But he may be mighty useful before we get through. You never can tell how you may be able to use a trained bloodhound—especially such a good one as ours.”

Patsy stopped to pat an immense dog who lay stretched out on the hot deck under the awning, too languid to move, except to let his great eyeballs roll lazily in their sockets in appreciation of Patsy Garvan’s caresses.

Meanwhile, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Captain Southern were taking the strong, double marine glasses in turn to inspect the boat which was working its way through the surf toward the Marathon.

The four men at the oars were low-caste Hindus. They would not have been doing this kind of work otherwise.

They were picturesque-looking rascals.

Naked to their waists, their brown skin glistened in the sunlight like the top of a German loaf. Each wore the white turban that is part of the costume of every Hindu, and on the wrists of some of them could be seen heavy brass rings.

In the stern of the boat—which was a wide, heavy craft, well able to stand the tossing of the surf and to make good time before the steady pulling of the oarsmen—stood a tall native who looked very different from the others.

This man wore a turban like the oarsmen, but there was a jewel fastened in the front of the folds of snowy cloth that glistened like the lens of a powerful flash lamp.

While it was not easy to make out his feature at that distance, Nick Carter saw, with admiration, that the limbs were lean and muscular, and that every movement of the lithe brown body indicated strength and activity.

That this man in the stern was in command could be told in more ways than one. He carried in his right hand a long lance, or spear, such as is used by some of the Indian cavalry regiments, but without the pennon which is generally attached.

Occasionally he emphasized his orders to the crew by giving one or other of them a rap across the bare shoulders with the staff of the spear, always accompanying it with a roaring command. Nick told this from the opening of his mouth, although he could not hear the sound.

For a few minutes longer Nick Carter stared through the binocular glass at the boat and its gigantic commander, while the captain and Jefferson Arnold talked apart.

Suddenly the big Hindu caused his boat to swing around as it approached the ship, and he waved a hand frantically at the rail where Captain, the bloodhound, had poked out his nose and was barking and whimpering alternately in recognition.

“Say, chief!” roared Patsy, looking up to Nick Carter. “That big busher knows you and Captain, too. Look at him.”

“Of course he knows the chief,” put in Chick, who had begun to make signs to the Hindu. “He knows me, too. We’ve been in this part of the world before.”

“Well, who is he, anyhow?” asked Patsy.

“He is a chief in the hill country, and he calls himself Jai Singh.”

“Calls himself?” repeated Patsy. “Isn’t that his real name?”

“Why, yes. I suppose it is. But there was a famous rajah named Jai Singh, who lived about two hundred years ago, and who built observatories at Jaipur and Delhi. The remains of them are still in existence, and astronomers say they were magnificent structures for that time, and would be even in this day.”

“Gee! Where did you get on to all that?” asked Patsy, open-mouthed. “You’re a wonder, Chick.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” returned Chick. “When I was here with the chief before, we learned a whole lot about India. It was our Jai Singh himself who told us about the rajah and his observatories. He’s a good fellow, but he’s a terror when he gets into a fight. Don’t forget that.”

“He makes those sun-baked bluffs at the oars attend to business, I notice.”

“Yes. They know that when Jai Singh is behind them, they have to keep moving,” returned Chick. “Hello! He’s coming aboard.”

Even as he spoke, the boat came up to the steamer, and Jai Singh, putting a hand on one of the anchor chains, held his small craft firmly, in spite of the tossing of the waves. He seemed to have a grip of iron.

In another minute or two the boat was secured to the anchor chain by a rope, and the tall Hindu climbed aboard like a monkey, spear and all.

Once on deck, he ran up to the bridge, and putting his right hand to his forehead, made a deep salaam to Nick Carter.

CHAPTER II.
UP INTO THE HILLS.

“Sahib, I am here!” said Jai Singh, in English, in a deep, guttural tone.

“I’m glad to see you, Jai Singh,” responded Nick Carter. “But I did not expect to find you so many miles from your home.”

“It is to help the sahib that I come,” replied Jai Singh, with dignity. “The men of the hills have taken one who must be saved.”

“Great Scott!” broke in Jefferson Arnold. “What does he know about it? I always have contended that these Indians know more than seems possible unless they have supernatural powers at their back.”

“It is Sahib Leslie Arnold,” went on Jai Singh calmly. “In the temple it was told to me that you would come.”

“What kind of bunk is that?” whispered Patsy. “Who told him, do you think?”

“Keep quiet, Patsy,” warned Chick. “He’s liable to hear you. Don’t you know that India is the land of mysteries? If you never believed in ghosts and demons, and all that kind of thing, you’ve got a surprise coming to you. You will find that things are not always what you see in this country. Houdini, Herrman, and Keller are not in it with some of these men when it comes to the black art.”

“Black rot!” muttered Patsy, entirely unconvinced.

Jai Singh was a noble figure. His light dress, suitable for such a climate, emphasized his physical grace and strength. The white shirt was open at the throat, and the white linen trousers, coming just below the knee, allowed the muscles of his powerful legs to be seen as they moved about under the dark satin skin like living things.

There were heavy golden armlets clanking at his wrists, and circlets of the same precious metal were around his ankles.

The one thing out of keeping with his picturesque Orientalism was the heavy automatic pistol which hung to a light cartridge belt around his waist.

The latter was well supplied with cartridges, and the naturalness with which the hand of the owner dropped upon the butt of his revolver now and then suggested that he was no novice in the use of that particular weapon of the white man.

“What do you know of my son, Jai Singh?” demanded Jefferson Arnold. “I am Mr. Leslie’s father.”

“Jai Singh knows that,” was the reply. “He sees Leslie’s face when he looks at you. I cannot tell anything of Sahib Leslie except that he has gone into the great mountains far up the Brahmapootra.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. But some of my young men have.”

“When?”

“It is many days, sahib. I cannot tell how many times the moon has come and gone since. But I came down to the sea to find those who might belong to Sahib Leslie.”

“Yes?”

“And I burned certain herbs in the forest, and I called to me those who tell me what I want to know. They told me you and Sahib Carter, and his friend, who is Chick, were to be here. So, in my boat, with my men, I came. I am here.”

Jai Singh made another obeisance. Then he waited for some one else to speak.

As is customary with Hindus of high caste, Jai Singh had enough dignity for a justice of the supreme court, added to a certain grace and nobility that belongs peculiarly to his race when they feel themselves entitled to consideration.

“You came down in the boat all the way along the Brahmapootra River?” asked Nick.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you use the railroad?”

“I do not know anything about that,” returned Jai Singh. “Only once have I been carried along by the smoke and fire, and that was with you. It has been the custom of my fathers to go where they would in their boat. I did the same as they,” returned Jai Singh simply. “But I will go in the train with you.”

“All right! There is no time to lose.”

Nick Carter turned to Captain Southern.

“Can you run right in to the wharf without trouble, captain?”

“Yes. I only waited to see what those fellows in the boat were after. Calcutta is a white man’s city—not the sort of place where lawlessness is likely to be found. But you never know. Not so many scores of miles in the back country the people are as wild as those in Calcutta are quiet and commonplace.”

“That’s true,” agreed Jefferson Arnold. “Every time I come to India I am struck by the fact that it is a land of amazing contrasts. It never could surprise me to meet a tiger walking along the streets, arm in arm with a cobra de capello, right there in Calcutta. It isn’t New York by a long chalk. Yet you will find white women, in European clothing, shopping in that city, over there, just as you will in Thirty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue.”

Jai Singh was instructed to get his boat, as well as the crew, on board the ship, and the captain immediately gave orders to steam up to the regular wharf belonging to Jefferson Arnold.

Nick Carter got Jai Singh in a retired place on deck, and the two talked earnestly for nearly half an hour. At the end of that time the great detective had a plan of action laid out which he followed as soon as the Marathon was warped up to her regular landing place.

Telling Chick and Patsy to keep somewhere near the wharf, so that they could be found when he returned, Nick Carter strolled off with Jefferson Arnold and Jai Singh to the office of the Arnold corporation on one of the several business streets of the ancient city.

There were white and Indian employees about the place. But in the office was only one young man, an American, who had been brought up in his native city, New York, until he had taken the position of assistant manager in the Calcutta branch of the importing and steamship house of the Arnold Company, a year before.

This young man’s name was John McKeever, and he was as keen as a newly ground bayonet.

“Hello, McKeever!” was Jefferson Arnold’s greeting. “What has become of Pike?”

“Gone,” replied McKeever laconically.

“Know where?”

“No idea. He just simply dried up. I came here one morning and he had cleaned out the safe and decamped. I went to the bank and found he had not deposited much of late, but that, two days before, he had taken out most of the company’s balance.”

“And they let him have it without question, eh?” put in Nick Carter.

“Certainly. It was not an unusual thing for him to take out all the money he had there—or most of it, especially when one of the ships of the company was nearly due. Everybody knew that the steamer Jefferson was expected about that time.”

“The Jefferson is the sister ship of the Marathon, Carter,” explained Arnold incidentally. “They are the two finest vessels of our fleet.”

“So he had no difficulty in getting the money,” continued McKeever. “It was supposed he meant to ship the cash to the home office in New York.”

“I see,” nodded Nick Carter. “Pretty well managed. But what about Leslie Arnold, Mr. McKeever?”

“He had been in the office two or three times. He said he was going tiger hunting soon, but that he thought he’d wait till the Jefferson came in, so that he could hear something about his father and affairs at home generally by direct word of mouth from the captain.”

“But he did not wait, after all?”

“No. He vanished just about the time Pike went,” replied McKeever. “We are not sure that there is any relation between the two in appearances. But there are the facts, just as I give them to you.”

“A hundred thousand dollars, you told me in your telegram, McKeever,” observed Jefferson thoughtfully.

“That’s what I figure it,” answered the young man. “But I cannot swear that Pike didn’t fix the books.”

“H’m! Very likely he did,” grunted Jefferson. “Well, we’ll get out on the night train. Jai Singh will have to be our guide. He seems to have some idea of where we may find Leslie. What do you say, Carter?”

“That’s the only thing to do,” answered the detective. “We will get what things we need and go. There is nothing to be done here. Fortunately, I know both your son and Pike. So does my man Chick. My other assistant, Patsy Garvan, has never seen either of them. But I can rely on him to help when the time comes.”

“Will you take your bloodhound?” asked Jefferson Arnold.

“Certainly! Old Captain has been useful in too many cases for me to leave him behind.”

“I was hoping you would take him,” said Jefferson. “We are likely to find ourselves against some of the tough tribes when we get up the country, and a dog who can follow a good scent will be a mighty comfortable friend in the party.”

“Well, that’s all, then,” remarked Nick Carter. “I just wanted to know from your assistant manager the exact status of the case.”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the millionaire, putting an affectionate hand on John McKeever’s shoulder. “You spoke of McKeever as ‘the assistant manager.’ You should have said ‘manager and confidential agent.’ This is his position here now. He takes William Pike’s place.”

There was a general handshake, with John McKeever’s sharp eyes a little dulled by emotion. Then his employer and Nick Carter went out into the simmering streets.

Seeking as much shade as they could, they strolled slowly back to the wharf where they had left the others.

Calcutta is a hot place in the afternoon, and nothing could be done until the sun began to go down. Then those who had been curled up in any partly cool place they could find for the inevitable siesta, stirred themselves, and the little party made its way to the railroad station.

Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, Chick, and Patsy Garvan all gathered in the coach reserve for high-caste natives and white persons, while Jai Singh and his men took their places in a car of lower class, to smoke cigarettes and doze throughout the night.

Captain was in the baggage car, where he made friends with the native train men, and seemed to be as contented as he always was anywhere so long as he had enough food and water.

They had begun the first stage of what might prove to be a long journey in the hunt for the missing Leslie Arnold.

CHAPTER III.
WHERE THE BABOO LOST OUT.

“Say, Chick, what kind of a hang-out is this we’re in?” asked Patsy Garvan, as he surveyed his surroundings some hours after they had alighted from the train up in the hill country. “I don’t see much besides trees, muddy water, and monkeys. I bet there are plenty of snakes, too, but they are under the leaves on the ground, I suppose. Is this still India?”

“Yes. We are getting toward the borders of Nepal,” answered Chick.

“Come again? Is there any difference between Nepal and the rest of this forsaken country? Gee! I’d——”

“Keep quiet, Patsy!” warned Chick. “Jai Singh speaks as good English as we do. He doesn’t like to hear any reflections on his country.”

“Does he belong to Nepal?” asked the irrepressible Patsy.

“He’s a Hindu, and the whole of India is sacred to him,” was Chick’s grave reply. “He’s got the boat ready. We’d better be getting over there.”

It was a small town at which the railroad had come to an end—the extremity of a branch of the main line—and if it had not been for Jai Singh, there would have been difficulty in going any farther.

Hindus of various castes were here, most of them of inferior kind, and they were not disposed to be friendly.

Like all natives of India in out-of-the-way places, they were ever on the lookout for alms, and Nick Carter, like most Americans, would have dealt with them on the basis of many tips if he had been left to himself.

As it was, Jai Singh, with his noble appearance and the prestige he derived from high caste, made the natives get around at his will. He gave a few annas here and there, because you could not deal with men of this kind in any other way, but his tips were never large, and he ordered them about in the offhand manner that had made him a power among his own people.

“A boat that will hold ten men,” had been his order to a surly looking native who stood near the platform when the train came to a halt. “Quick!”

“I have no boat,” had been the short reply.

“Get one! And listen to me, dog of an unbeliever!” added Jai Singh. “If it isn’t ready before the sun goes down behind those palms yonder, why——”

He finished the admonition by raising his spear and flourishing it with a graceful dexterity that the other man understood at once.

The boat was ready at the time set, and Jai Singh superintended the putting into it of such stores as he thought they might need on their journey into the wild country they contemplated invading.

Rice, canned meats and fish, fruits, a bag of hard biscuits, and several skins of water were put in the boat.

“What’s the idea of putting water in the boat?” inquired Patsy. “Isn’t there enough in this river for us to drink?”

“Poison to white men,” replied Jai Singh curtly. “None must drink of the river.”

“It does look kind of yellow,” observed Patsy. “Thick, too! Still, that might not be so bad if a fellow happened to be hungry. Meat and drink all in one—like an oyster stew. I don’t know but what——”

“Patsy!” interrupted Nick Carter.

“On deck!” responded Patsy, with a facetious military salute.

“Please reserve your comments on things in general till we’re on the boat and out of this village,” ordered the detective, rather sternly.

“Gee! What’s biting the boss?” whispered Patsy to Chick, as Nick Carter turned away.

“You’re liable to offend somebody about here if you talk too much about the river,” answered Chick. “This is a branch of the Ganges, the most sacred stream in India. The chief doesn’t want a fight on his hands just because you talk too much.”

“I wouldn’t say another word if the Ganges got up on its tail and gave me back slack from here to—to—wherever we’re going,” replied Patsy, who was always bound to have the closing speech if he could get it.

The boat was a large, clumsy-looking craft, which would hold all their party, with the baggage, without overcrowding. Moreover, it was not so clumsy as it appeared, for afterward, when the four natives under Jai Singh’s orders settled down to work with their oars, they showed that they could make good time even with a sluggish current against them and in the oppressive heat that even as the sun approached the west, made the white men gasp for breath.

They were not started yet, however.

Jai Singh, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Chick were all on the rough landing stage, looking at the boat, to see that everything was stowed in that might be required, when there was a shout behind them. Half a dozen natives were stalking in their direction, and there was an indescribable air of official determination pervading the whole procession.

“Hello!” ejaculated Arnold. “What’s broken loose here? What do those black scalawags think they want?”

“Let the sahib keep quiet,” requested Jai Singh, in a low voice. “It is I who will talk to them.”

“Just as you like,” returned the millionaire, with a shrug. “I’m quite willing to keep out of the powwow, so long as it does not hold us up on our journey after my poor boy.”

“We shan’t be held up,” put in Nick Carter. “I’ll promise you that.”

Jefferson Arnold nodded.

“Stop!”

Jai Singh, with upraised hand, shouted this peremptory order. At the same time he allowed the butt of his lance to drop with a loud bang upon the planks under his feet.

All the men stopped but the one in the lead.

Nick Carter recognized him as the surly fellow they had met when they got off the train, and who afterward had provided them with their boat.

The rascal had demanded enough money to have bought such a boat twice over in India. But on Nick Carter’s whispering that it was the best way to avoid delay, Jefferson Arnold had paid it without demur.

“I could get it for you at about half that price,” Nick had added. “But it would mean several hours of bargaining, and that would keep us here till the morning. It is desirable to get away to-night.”

Jefferson Arnold would rather have paid four times the worth of the boat than be kept another twelve hours in this village.

“What do you want?” demanded Jai Singh now, as the surly native stalked forward.

Nick Carter observed that the native had put on clean white raiment, and that there was a ruby holding together the upper garment on his chest. His turban was new and white, and there were more gold anklets and bracelets on him than had been there when they first saw him.

“Who’s the pretty boy with the curtain rings on him?” observed Chick.

“Hum! He is an official of some rank,” whispered Nick Carter.

“Yes, and he’s dolled himself up so that we shall know it,” was the assistant’s smiling reply. “He might be a rajah or a begum or something of that kind, judging by his manner.”

“I want pay for the boat,” returned the man, answering Jai Singh’s question. “I am Baboo Punyah.”

“Say, Chick!” called out Patsy Garvan, from the boat, in a loud whisper. “What in blazes is a baboo?”

“It means ‘gentleman,’” replied Chick quickly. “Shut up, will you?”

“If that’s what it means, I don’t believe that guy’s it,” grumbled Patsy. “I thought it was some kind of monkey.”

“You have been paid,” was all Jai Singh condescended to reply to the demand of Baboo Punyah. “Go back! We proceed on our way in our own boat.”

But Baboo Punyah, having by this time eight or ten natives behind him on whom he believed he could rely at a pinch, was not to be lightly dismissed.

“The pay for that boat is much more than I have received. It will be two hundred rupees more or you cannot go!” he shouted, extending both hands impressively. “I wait for the money.”

Standing there, his arms folded across his breast, his gold anklets and bracelets, as well as the jewels in his turban and at his breast, glistening in the red light of the dying sun, Baboo Punyah was a dignified figure.

He had the attitude of one who would be as immovable from the position he had taken as the great Rock of Trichinoply itself.

But it is often insignificant things that take the dignity out of the most determined of men. It was so in this case.

Captain, the big bloodhound, had been loaded into the boat, and was lying comfortably in the bottom, with his head between the knees of Patsy Garvan.

Whether Patsy whispered in his ear, or perhaps gave him a sly hoist behind will ever remain in doubt.

What is certain is that Captain betrayed a sudden interest in Baboo Punyah which made Patsy chuckle silently, but which was not observed by any one else.

Getting on his feet, the dog knocked Patsy backward, and contemplated Baboo Punyah as if he were some new production that had never come within his range of vision before, and was somewhat of a puzzle to his canine mind.

“Get him, Captain!” whispered Patsy.

This was enough for Captain. He had no particular grudge against Baboo Punyah, but he did want to know something more about this loud-talking Hindu.

What he did was to jump ashore and carom into the baboo with such violence as to knock him over on his back.

Nor was this all. Captain did not want to hurt the man, but his play was too rough to please the dignified native. He aimed a kick at the dog, but missed him.

“Look out, Chick!” shouted Patsy, standing up in the boat. “Don’t let him hurt Captain.”

It was evident that Baboo Punyah had for the moment forgotten his intention to demand more pay for the boat in his determination to deal with the bloodhound.

Nick Carter had been watching the little comedy with a grave smile. He would have interfered to keep the dog away, only that he felt the Hindu deserved some punishment for his bare-faced effort at extortion.

But when he saw Baboo Punyah draw a keen dagger from the folds of his white garment, there was no time for more quiet contemplation.

The knife had just come clear of the fellow’s clothing, and the long dark fingers were clutching the ivory handle savagely, as he held the point above Captain’s head.

Another instant and the dagger would have come down with a powerful stroke that might have brought it into the bloodhound’s heart.

But Nick Carter was too quick for the fellow.

With a swinging cuff, he caught Baboo Punyah on the side of the head and sent him scurrying along the platform. Then, without giving the man time to recover, Nick took him by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his white linen breeches, and swung him into the air.

There was a terrified yell from the natives in the background—a shout that was in perfect chorus—but they did not attempt to help their leader.

Nick Carter had Baboo Punyah straight out above his head, holding him there a moment, as if trying to decide what he should eventually do with him.

He made up his mind quickly. With a mighty heave, he sent the Hindu flying over his head, backward and headfirst into the river.

Luckily, it was fairly deep where Baboo Punyah plunged in, and the worst he suffered was the wetting.

Jai Singh dragged him out as he came to the side of the river, the yellow stain of the water marking his white clothing.

Without saying anything more, the disgruntled Hindu walked away, taking his friends with him, and there was nothing more said about additional pay for the boat. The ducking had settled that bit of extortion.

As the four oarsmen began to urge the boat upstream, Nick Carter, sitting in the stern, by the side of Jai Singh, who steered, saw that most of the inhabitants of the village was staring after them curiously.

“I wonder how much those fellows know about Leslie Arnold’s disappearance,” muttered the detective. “Well, whatever they may know, they will not tell. Fortunately, I think we can do without their help.”

CHAPTER IV.
A STRANGE CRY AT NIGHT.

All night the boat moved up the yellow stream, the oarsmen working with the dogged industry of men who were laboring because they had to do it, and not from choice.

Jai Singh kept them up to their task with an occasional gruff word, and now and then he swung the long staff of his spear over their heads as a hint that he would not permit any “soldiering.”

It was early morning when he said quietly to Nick Carter:

“If the sahib would like, we will stop here. It is time for food and drink, for the coming day.”

“You mean breakfast, eh?” put in Patsy eagerly. “Good idea! You’re all right, Jai.”

Jai Singh glanced at Patsy as if half inclined to call him to account for his familiarity. But he didn’t. He had taken a great liking to Nick Carter’s good-humored second assistant. Therefore, he was inclined to permit him liberties he would not brook from anybody else.

The men rowed the boat inshore, and Jai Singh jumped out and held it while the four white men disembarked.

They helped him pull the boat far up on the bank, and Nick Carter secured it by a strong rope to the trunk of a deodar, which is another name for the Himalayan cedar.

“There’s a cataract not far ahead, I should say, from the way the water rushes down,” observed Nick Carter to Jai Singh.

“The sahib is right. The big falls are not far above. We must carry the boat around. But our men will do it. There will be no trouble for the sahibs. We will build a fire now.”

“Look here, Jai,” broke in Patsy. “How far are we to go before we get action on Leslie Arnold. Aren’t we nearly up to the place he is in?”

“The young sahib, Arnold, is in the Land of the Golden Scarab,” replied Jai Singh. “It is near, or far, as it may happen. I cannot tell. The people of that land are men who move often.”

“That may be so,” interposed Nick Carter. “But they have a city of their own, with a temple and many people. That much I know.”

“Right,” acknowledged Jai Singh. “If the young Sahib Arnold is there, we can go to him. If he is with some people of the Golden Scarab, somewhere else, we may have to travel long. We shall see.”

“Not much encouragement in that, Carter,” grumbled Jefferson Arnold, as Jai Singh moved away to superintend the building of a fire. “Still, I suppose we cannot do better than to let him lead us on.”

“It is all we can do at present,” was the detective’s reply. “It is safe to trust Jai Singh, but we must let him do it in his own way.”

“I wish his way wasn’t so slow,” interjected Chick. “Anyhow, he is going to give us a breakfast, so we should be thankful for that. He makes good coffee,” he added, sniffing appreciatively.

In a short time Jai Singh set forth a breakfast, from the stores they carried, that might hardly have been expected in such a wilderness.

Not only was there coffee, made with the skill that only the native-born East Indian ever attains, but it was softened with condensed milk kept in small air-tight cans, and sweetened with very good sugar.

There were fruits, all kinds of canned sweetmeats, and some of the dried fish of which so much is used in tropical climates, with curried rice and other viands distinctly Indian.

The four oarsmen had built their fire at a considerable distance, and down the wind, so that its smoke should not annoy the white people.

The laborers, who were of the coolie caste, knew their place, and never presumed to even look at Jai Singh unless he addressed them.

Even then they usually kept their faces averted, as if the light of his countenance were too dazzling to be met by their unworthy eyes.

After the meal, Nick Carter and Jefferson Arnold sat smoking, as they rested in the shade of the spreading trees around them, amusing themselves by looking at the distant oarsmen.

“They are big, strong fellows,” remarked Nick Carter. “But they are full of superstition. You can see, by the way they huddle together, that they are afraid of what might come out of the woods. I do not mean wild animals, or even snakes—although there are plenty of them in the forests of this country. What these fellows fear is something of preternatural shape. If they weren’t so thoroughly in awe of Jai Singh, I am inclined to think they would get away and leave us.”

“That is true, sahib,” broke in Jai Singh, in a deep growl. “But the men are not to be blamed. Many strange things happen by night. Even I, who am afraid of no man, have known the chill fingers of fear on my shoulder ere now in such places as this. If all tales be true, the country back here is full of strange things, of which it is not wise to speak.”

“Oh, cut it out, Jai!” interrupted Patsy, with a shiver, half real and half in mockery. “What kind of guff are you giving us?”

“There are tales of men going into these forests and being swallowed up. No man has seen them again, not even their bones.”

“Wow!” howled Patsy.

“Others have gone in, or been driven in, alone and unarmed, by powers they could not stand against. After many days they have come out with their skin a silver gray, all cracked and dried. They have had neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, nor fingers to make signs with, so that none could tell what had befallen them.”

“Cheerful old cuss, isn’t he?” whispered Chick to his chief.

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.

He was strengthened in this belief by the fact that the whole party was pretty well exhausted by the labor of getting the boat and stores around, and was obliged to rest.

It had meant a walk of more than two miles, and everybody had been obliged to do his full part. The labor had been much heavier than Jai Singh had anticipated.

It was easy for all of them to fall asleep. The slumber they had had in the daytime was not so refreshing as this, with blackness around them and even the ordinary voices of nature stilled.

Chick had laid down by the side of the bloodhound, and was one of the first to lose himself. It had been arranged that they were to sleep for an hour and then go on.

The others each dropped down into any attitude that seemed comfortable, and in a few moments all were as oblivious to the outer world as Chick himself.

Suddenly a strange cry echoed through the blackness of the forest. It was a shriek of agony that echoed and reëchoed until it died away into a wailing moan. Hardly human, yet a sound that no animal could have produced.

Captain heard it; Chick knew that by the way he stirred and whimpered.

“What was that?” whispered Nick Carter.

In the deep gloom, Chick could see the detective sitting up, ready for action, his rifle across his knees.

“You heard it, did you?” asked Chick quietly. “It woke me.”

“Hush!”

The cry arose again, but was more faint than before.

“What kind of game are they giving us?” muttered Jefferson Arnold. “Is it a screech owl?”

Jai Singh, without speaking, picked up his spear and waited for what was to come.

For the third time the scream sounded through the forest—long drawn out and ending in a sobbing wail.

“It is the devils of the forest. There are unclean spirits walking near,” muttered Jai Singh.

“Spirits or no spirits, clean or unclean,” said Nick Carter. “I am going to see.”

He struck a match, but, so powerful was the ghostly influence even upon the detective’s usually steady nerves, that his hand shook, and he dropped the match.

Perhaps he did not try much to hold it, for it seemed to him, even as the light broke out, that it was hardly a wise thing to do until he knew what was in the vicinity.

“I have my flash light in my pocket,” he muttered to himself. “But, on the whole, I guess we’d better investigate in the dark.”

From the four coolies, some two or three hundred feet away, there came no sound. Whether they had heard the cry or not Nick did not know. Certainly, they made no sign.

Captain continued to whine in a low tone, as if frightened. Nick put his hands on the dog’s back and found it wet with the perspiration of fear.

“That settles it,” he thought, as he got a grip on himself. “When a dog is frightened—especially a dog as good as Captain—it is time to look into it.” Then, aloud, to Jai Singh: “Stay here with the dog, Jai Singh, and mind your four men don’t run away. We are going to see what made that racket in the woods.”

Nick Carter led the way into the black thicket. He was closely followed by Chick, Patsy, and Jefferson Arnold. Each man carried a rifle, as well as a revolver in his belt.

If the mysterious disturber in the forest turned out to be dangerous, they would find out whether bullets would not put an end to the noise.

On the other hand, if it really came from spirits, it would be well to find that out, too.

CHAPTER V.
THE SNAKE CHARMER.

Through the heavy foliage they forced their way, and had gone several hundred yards before Nick Carter suddenly stopped. As he did so, the others banged into him, just as the horrible cry broke forth once again.

“Look!” whispered Nick.

Some two hundred feet ahead, so far as they were able to calculate, a patch of greenish light, faint and elusive, darted about among the dank undergrowth.