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TITLE: THE LOST CITY
AUTHOR: JOSEPH E. BADGER, JR
EBOOK: E02948 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

THE LOST CITY BY JOSEPH E. BADGER, JR.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
I.      NATURE IN TRAVAIL
II.     PROFESSOR FEATHERWIT TAKING NOTES
III.    RIDING THE TORNADO
IV.     THE PROFESSOR'S LITTLE EXPERIMENT 
V.      THE PROFESSOR'S UNKNOWN LAND
VI.     A BRACE OF UNWELCOME VISITORS
VII.    THE PROFESSOR'S GREAT ANTICIPATIONS
VIII.   A DUEL TO THE DEATH
IX.     GRAPPLING A QUEER FISH
X.      RESCUED AND RESCUERS
XI.     ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR THE PROFESSOR
XII.    THE STORY OF A BROKEN LIFE
XIII.   THE LOST CITY OF THE AZTECS
XIV.    A MARVELLOUS VISION
XV.     ASTOUNDING, YET TRUE
XVI.    CAN IT BE TRUE?
XVII.   AN ENIGMA FOR THE BROTHERS
XVIII.  SOMETHING LIKE A WHITE ELEPHANT
XIX.    THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN GOD
XX.     THE PROFESSOR AND THE AZTEC
XXI.    DISCUSSING WAYS AND MEANS
XXII.   A DARING UNDERTAKING
XXIII.  A FLIGHT UNDERGROUND
XXIV.   THE SUN CHILDREN'S PERIL
XXV.    WALDO GOES FISHING
XXVI.   DOWN AMONG THE DEAD
XXVII.  PENETRATING GRIM SECRETS
XXVIII. BROUGHT BEFORE THE GODS
XXIX.   BENEATH THE SACRIFICIAL STONE
XXX.    AGAINST OVERWHELMING ODDS
XXXI.   DEFENDING THE SUN CHILDREN
XXXII.  ADIEU TO THE LOST CITY

THE LOST CITY.

CHAPTER I.

NATURE IN TRAVAIL.

"I say, professor?"

"Very well, Waldo; proceed."

"Wonder if this isn't a portion of the glorious climate, broken
loose from its native California, and drifting up this way on a
lark?"

"If so, said lark must be roasted to a turn," declared the third
(and last) member of that little party, drawing a curved
forefinger across his forehead, then flirting aside sundry drops
of moisture.  "I can't recall such another muggy afternoon, and
if we were only back in what the scientists term the cyclone
belt--"

"We would be all at sea," quickly interposed the professor, the
fingers of one hand vigorously stirring his gray pompadour, while
the other was lifted in a deprecatory manner.  "At sea, literally
as well as metaphorically, my dear Bruno; for, correctly
speaking, the ocean alone can give birth to the cyclone."

"Why can't you remember anything, boy?" sternly cut in the
roguish-eyed youngster, with admonitory forefinger, coming to the
front.  "How many times have I told you never to say blue when
you mean green?  Why don't you say Kansas zephyr?  Or
windy-auger?  Or twister?  Or whirly-gust on a corkscrew
wiggle-waggle?  Or--well, almost any other old thing that you
can't think of at the right time?  W-h-e-w!  Who mentioned
sitting on a snowdrift, and sucking at an icicle?  Hot?  Well,
now, if this isn't a genuine old cyclone breeder, then I wouldn't
ask a cent!"

Waldo Gillespie let his feet slip from beneath him, sitting down
with greater force than grace, back supported against a gnarled
juniper, loosening the clothes at his neck while using his other
hand to ply his crumpled hat as a fan.

Bruno laughed outright at this characteristic anticlimax, while
Professor Featherwit was obliged to smile, even while compelled
to correct.

"Tornado, please, nephew; not cyclone."

"Well, uncle Phaeton, have it your own way.  Under either name, I
fancy the thing-a-ma-jig would kick up a high old bobbery with a
man's political economy should it chance to go bu'st right there!

And, besides, when I was a weenty little fellow I was taught
never to call a man a fool or a liar--"

"Waldo!" sharply warned his brother, turning again.

"So long as I knew myself to be in the wrong," coolly finished
the youngster, face grave, but eyes twinkling, as they turned
towards his mistaken mentor.  "What is it, my dear Bruno?"

"There is one thing neither cyclone nor tornado could ever
deprive you of, Kid, and that is--"

"My beauty, wit, and good sense,--thanks, awfully!  Nor you, my
dear Bruno, although my inbred politeness forbids my explaining
just why."

There was a queer-sounding chuckle as Professor Featherwit turned
away, busying himself about that rude-built shed and shanty which
sheltered the pride of his brain and the pet of his heart, while
Bruno smiled indulgently as he took a few steps away from those
stunted trees in order to gain a fairer view of the stormy
heavens.

Far away towards the northeast, rising above the distant hill,
now showed an ugly-looking cloud-bank which almost certainly
portended a storm of no ordinary dimensions.

Had it first appeared in the opposite quarter of the horizon,
Bruno would have felt a stronger interest in the clouds, knowing
as he did that the miscalled "cyclone" almost invariably finds
birth in the southwest.  Then, too, nearly all the other symptoms
were noticeable,--the close, "muggy" atmosphere; the deathlike
stillness; the lack of oxygen in the air, causing one to breathe
more rapidly, yet with far less satisfying results than usual.

Even as Bruno gazed, those heavy cloud-banks changed, both in
shape and in colour, taking on a peculiar greenish lustre which
only too accurately forebodes hail of no ordinary force.

His cry to this effect brought the professor forth from the
shed-like shanty, while Waldo roused up sufficiently to speak:

"To say nothing of yonder formation way out over the salty drink,
my worthy friends, who intimated that a cyclone was born at sea?"

Professor Featherwit frowned a bit as his keen little rat-like
eyes turned towards that quarter of the heavens; but the frown
was not for Waldo, nor for his slightly irreverent speech.

Where but a few minutes before there had been only a few light
clouds in sight, was now a heavy bank of remarkable shape, its
crest a straight line as though marked by an enormous ruler,
while the lower edge was broken into sharp points and irregular
sections, the whole seeming to float upon a low sea of grayish
copper.

"Well, well, that looks ugly, decidedly ugly, I must confess,"
the wiry little professor spoke, after that keen scrutiny.

"Really, now?" drawled Waldo, who was nothing if not contrary on
the surface.  "Barring a certain little topsy-turvyness which is
something out of the ordinary, I'd call that a charming bit
of--Great guns and little cannon-balls!"

For just then there came a shrieking blast of wind from out the
northeast, bringing upon its wings a brief shower of hail,
intermingled with great drops of rain which pelted all things
with scarcely less force than did those frozen particles.

"Hurrah!" shrilly screamed Waldo, as he dashed out into the
storm, fairly revelling in the sudden change.  "Who says this
isn't 'way up in G?' Who says--out of the way, Bruno!  Shut that
trap-door in your face, so another fellow may get at least a
share of the good things coming straight down from--ow--wow!"

Through the now driving rain came flashing larger particles, and
one of more than ordinary size rebounded from that curly pate,
sending its owner hurriedly to shelter beneath the scrubby trees,
one hand ruefully rubbing the injured part.

Faster fell the drops, both of rain and of ice, clattering
against the shanty and its adjoining shed with an uproar audible
even above the sullenly rolling peals of heavy thunder.

The rain descended in perfect sheets for a few minutes, while the
hailstones fell thicker and faster, growing in size as the storm
raged, already beginning to lend those red sands a pearly tinge
with their dancing particles.  Now and then an aerial monster
would fall, to draw a wondering cry from the brothers, and on
more than one occasion Waldo risked a cracked crown by dashing
forth from shelter to snatch up a remarkable specimen.

"Talk about your California fruit!  what's the matter with good
old Washington Territory?" he cried, tightly clenching one fist
and holding a hailstone alongside by way of comparison.  "Look at
that, will you?  Isn't it a beauty?  See the different shaded
rings of white and clear ice.  See--brother, it is as large as my
fist!"

But for once Professor Phaeton Featherwit was fairly deaf to the
claims of this, in some respects his favourite nephew, having
scuttled back beneath the shed, where he was busily stowing away
sundry articles of importance into a queerly shaped machine which
those rough planks fairly shielded from the driving storm.

Having performed this duty to his own satisfaction, the professor

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