r all.

"Take these in and open them, Waldo," said the professor, selecting
several cans from the stock in the locker. "Poor fellow! 'Twill be like
a foretaste of civilisation, just to see and smell, much less taste, the
fruit."

"Even if he has turned looney, eh, uncle Phaeton?"

"Careful, boy! I hardly think he is just that far gone; but, even if
so, what marvel? Think of all he must have suffered during so many
long, dreary years! and--his wife and child! I wonder--I do wonder if he
really killed--but that is incredible, simply and utterly incredible! An
Aztec--here--alive!"

"Dead, uncle Phaeton," corrected Waldo. "Killed the redskin, he said,
and I really reckon he meant it. Why not, pray?"

"But--an Aztec, boy!" exclaimed the bewildered savant, unable to pass
that point. "The tunic of quilted cotton, the escaupil! The maquahuitl,
with its blades of grass! The bow and arrows which--all, all surely of
Aztecan manufacture, yet seemingly fresh and serviceable as though in
use but a month ago! And the race extinct for centuries!"

"Well, unless he's a howling liar from 'way up the crick, he extincted
one of 'em," cheerfully commented Waldo, bearing his canned fruit to the
cavern.

Professor Featherwit followed shortly after, finding the exile busy
preparing food, looking and acting far more naturally than he had since
his rescue from the whirlpool. And then, until the evening meal was
announced, uncle Phaeton hovered near those amazing curiosities, now
gazing like one in a waking dream, then gingerly fingering each article
in turn, as though hoping to find a solution for his enigma through the
sense of touch.

Taken all in all, that was far from a pleasant or enjoyable meal. A
sense of restraint rested upon each one of that little company, and not
one succeeded in fairly breaking it away, though each tried in turn.

Despite the struggle made by the exile to hold all emotions well under
subjection, Cooper Edgecombe failed to hide his almost childish delight
at sight and taste of those canned goods, and it did not require much
urging on the part of his rescuers to ensure his partaking freely.

But the cap-sheaf came when uncle Phaeton, true to his habit of long
years, after eating, produced pipe and pouch, the fragrant tobacco
catching the exile's nostrils and drawing a low, tremulous cry from his
lips.

No need to ask what was the matter, for that eager gaze, those quivering
fingers, were enough. And just