Hardly had they thrown a line over a swaying post when two men sprang across the narrow space.

"Watch your step!"

It was Johnny Thompson who spoke. The man with him was the young doctor of his outfit.

As they cleared the dock and entered a side street of this metropolis of eastern Russia, they walked with a heavy tread; their step lacked the elasticity that their youthful faces would warrant. They were either very weary or very heavily burdened. No burdens were visible, though something might be concealed beneath their greatcoats. There was, indeed, a bulkiness about their forms from shoulder to waist, but in this Arctic clime, coming as they had from the north, one might easily credit this to sweaters.

As they reached the shadow of a building, Johnny stopped and fumbled in his pocket. At the same time his gaze wandered away toward the north.

"Wonder where Pant is now?" he grumbled. "I miss the little rascal, don't you?"

"Sure do."

"Wonder what made him drop us flat that way?"

"Can't say. Had a reason, though. He always had a reason, and a good one. There was something he wanted to do."

"Hope he does it quick and gets on down here. He's been part of my bodyguard so long, I confess I don't feel safe in a new place like this without him."

Johnny stopped fumbling in his pocket and drew forth three yellow slips of paper.

"Here's the messages. I wrote 'em all down. Mighty little good they'll do us."

He read them aloud:

"'When can you come across?'" (Signed) "M."

"'We must produce. At once.'" (Signed) "M."

"'Am in danger. Come across.'" (Signed) "M."

"What does a fellow get out of that, anyway?" he grumbled. "What does this fellow 'M' expect? The first one reached us after we'd been operating two months, the second a month later, and the third a month after that. What does he think this land is like? Three thousand miles! But then, I suppose the rotten Russians did it. Made threats, likely."

"Doesn't give any address," commented the doctor.

"Not a scratch. We'd better go to the Red Cross headquarters, wherever that is. Let's hunt it up."

Again they took up their heavy, even tread and came out from the narrow street onto a broader one, which appeared to lead to the business section of the city.

As Johnny sniffed the pungent odor of spring in the twilight air, he was forcibly reminded of the time consumed in that journey from the mines to Vladivostok. He regretted the many delays. When they occurred, he had fairly fumed at them. He realized now that "M," whoever that might be, the agent sent from Chicago to superintend the distribution of supplies for the refugee orphans, might have been compelled to leave Russia before this. That the Russians, disturbed by a thousand suspicions and fears, would not tolerate a stranger who had no apparent purpose for being in their land, he knew all too well. The agent could state the purpose of his presence in the beginning and get away with it, but when months had elapsed and nothing had been done, what dark suspicions might be directed against him?

Johnny heaved a sigh of resignation. Nothing that had happened could have been avoided. Time and again ice-floes clogging the waters of those northern seas had threatened to crush their craft, and only by long detours and many hours of tireless pulling away from the giant cakes had they found a passage. The journey could have been made by reindeer in the same length of time. As he thought of that, his heart skipped a beat. What if the little yellow men who had come so near making away with that two hundredweight of gold had succeeded in securing reindeer, and had made their way to Vladivostok? What would they not risk to regain possession of the gold that had been snatched from them?

As he thought of this, he picked his steps more cautiously along the slippery streets. He cast a glance to the right and left of him. Then he started and plucked at his companion's sleeve.

"Hist!" he whispered. "Watch the alley to the right!"

* * * * *

When Pant so abruptly deserted Johnny Thompson's service, leaving only a vaguely worded note to tell of his going, he had, indeed, a plan and a purpose. So daring was this purpose that had he taken time to think it through to its end, he might never have attempted it. But Pant thought only of beginnings of enterprises, leaving the conclusions to work themselves out as best they might, effectively aided by his own audacity.

His purpose can best be stated by telling what he did.

When he left the schooner that night and crossed over the shadowy shore ice, a blizzard was rising. Already the snow-fog it raised had turned the moon into a misty ball. Through it the gleaming camp fires of the Bolshevik band told they had camped for the night not five miles from the mines.

The blizzard suited Pant's purposes well. It might keep the Russians in camp for many hours, and would most certainly make an effective job of a little piece of work which he wished to have done.

With a watchful eye he skirted the cabin they had left but a brief time before. A pale yellow light shone from one of the windows. Either the place was being looted by natives, or the yellow men had taken refuge there. The presence of a half-score of dogs scouting about the outside led him to believe that it was the natives. Where, then, were the Orientals?

Breathing a hope that they might not be found in the mines or the machine sheds, he hurried on. With a hand tight gripped on his automatic, he made his way into Mine No. 1. All was dark, damp and silent. The very ghost of his dead comrade seemed to lurk there still. Who was it that had killed Frank Langlois, and how had it been done? Concerning these questions, he now had a very definite solution, but it would be long before he knew the whole truth.

Once inside the mine, he hastened to the square entrance that had been cut there by the strange buzz-saw-like machine of the Orientals. The wall was thin at this place. With a pick he widened the gap until the machine could be crowded through, and with great difficulty he dragged it to the entrance of the mine. Once here his task was easier, for the machine was on runners and slid readily over the hard-crusted snow. With a look this way, then that, he plunged into the rising storm. Pushing the machine before him, he presently reached the mouth of Mine No. 3 in which three days of steam-thawing had brought the miners to a low-grade pay dirt. The cavity was cut forty feet into the side of the bank which lay over the old bed of the river.

Having dragged the machine into the farthest corner, he returned to the entrance and at once dodged into the machine sheds. To these sheds he made five trips. On a small dog-sled he brought first a little gasoline engine and electric generator, next eight square batteries, then some supplies of food, a tank of gasoline, and some skin garments from the storeroom. His last journey found the first gray streaks of dawn breaking through the storm. He must hasten.

With a long knife he began cutting square cakes of snow and fitting them into the entrance of the mine. Soon, save for a narrow gap well hidden beneath a ledge of rock, the space was effectively blocked.

He stretched himself, then yawned sleepily.

"It's a poor game that two can't play at," he muttered. "Now, if I can get this machinery singin', we'll see what Mine No. 3 has saved up for us. Unless I miss my guess, from the way the rock lays, she'll be a rich one."

With that he crept into his sleeping-bag and was soon lost in the land of dreams.

Pant's first act, after awaking some six hours later, was to connect four of his batteries in series, then to connect the ends of two wires to the poles of the series. The wires were attached at the other end to a socket for an electric light.

When the connections were completed he screwed in a small bulb. The filament in the lamp glowed red, but gave no light.

Two batteries were added to the series, then two more. At this, the light shone brightly, dispelling the gloom of the place and driving the shadows into the deepest recesses.

With a smile on his lips, the boy twisted a wire into a coil, connected it to the battery circuit, watched it redden, then set his coffee-pot over it.

He was soon enjoying a cup of hot coffee and pilot bread.

"Not so bad! Not even half bad!" he muttered good-naturedly to himself. "Electricity is great stuff. Now for the mining stunt!"

He listened for a moment to the howl of the blizzard outside, then began busying himself with the machinery at hand. Connecting the batteries to the gasoline generator to give it a "kick-off," he heard the pop of the engine with evident satisfaction. He next connected all his batteries in series and, having connected the engine, ran wires from it to the motor in the strange, mining buzz-saw. There followed a moment of suspense, then a grunt of disgust.

"Not enough voltage. Gotta get more batteries to-night. Dangerous, too. Storm's going down. Bolsheviki coming in. Natives prowling an' yellow men, don't know about. Gotta do it though."

At that he sat down on his sleeping-bag, and, with arms outstretched, like Jack London's man of the wild, he slept the uneasy sleep of one who hunts and is hunted.

Night came at last and, with it, wakefulness and action. Cutting a hole through the snow-wall, which under the drive of the storm had grown to a surprising thickness, he crept out and slid down the hard bank, leaving no tracks behind.

The storm had abated; the moon and stars were out. As he dodged into the store sheds, he fancied that he saw a shadow flit from sight at the other end.

Working rapidly, he unearthed four fresh batteries. They were heavy affairs. A sled improvised from a plank and a bit of wire would aid him in bringing them up the hill. He had just arranged this contrivance and was about to turn toward the door, when a sudden darkening of the patch of moonlight admitted by the open door caused him to leap behind the massive shape of a smelter. He peered around the edge of it, his breath coming rapidly.

Through his mind sped the question: "Bolsheviki, natives, or yellow men?"

* * * * *

Upon freeing itself from the frozen claybank, the sausage balloon, with Dave Tower, Jarvis and the unconscious stranger on board, rose rapidly.

In their wild consternation, Dave and Jarvis did not realize this until the intense cold of the upper air began to creep through the heavily-padded walls of the cabin.

At this, Jarvis dropped on his stomach and stared down through the plate-glass on the floor.

"Shiver my bones!" he ejaculated, "we're a mile 'igh and goin' 'igher!"

At this word Dave dashed for the door. He had it half open. A blast of air so cold that it seemed solid ice rushed its way through the opening.

Immediately Jarvis threw himself against the door.

"What'll y' do?" he stormed. "I 'ates to think 'ow stiff you'd freeze h'out there in the 'alf of a second."

Dave shook with the cold and the excitement. The stranger in the corner groaned.

Jarvis sprang to the gasoline motor.

"If we can get 'er started we'll 'ave some 'eat."

After five minutes of fumbling about with stiffening fingers, he straightened up with a sigh.

"Can't make 'ead nor tail of 'er. These bloomin' 'eathen; they make such queer riggin's."

Dave did not answer. He had discovered a series of sealed wet batteries lined against the wall and, having dragged one of these loose from its wiring, prepared to test it out with a piece of insulated wire.

In a second there came a blinding flash.

"Charged! Charged to the gunwale!" he exulted. "Now if we can only hook them up with the heating system of this cabin, we're all right. Give us a hand."

Jarvis, catching his idea, began searching for the connecting wires of the heating system, while Dave connected the batteries in series.

"'Ere they are," he exclaimed suddenly. "Right 'ere, me lad."

Soon a life-sustaining warmth came gently stealing over the place.

"Take hoff 'alf the batteries," suggested Jarvis, "'alf's a plenty. There's no tellin' 'ow long we'll be sailin' in this hark."

This was hardly done when their attention was attracted by the stranger. He had groaned and turned over.

"Now that it's warm enough," suggested Dave, "we'd better try to help the poor fellow back to consciousness. If he hasn't suffered a concussion of the brain, he'll live yet, and perhaps he can tell us things. There are plenty of questions I'd like to ask him."

"Yes," exclaimed Jarvis eagerly. "'Oo killed Frank Langlois."

They went to work over the man. Having removed his outer garments, they unbuttoned his shirt and began chafing his hands, arms and chest, till they were rewarded by a sigh of returning consciousness.

"Where am I?" the man whispered, as he opened his eyes.

"You're all right," answered Dave quickly. "Drink this and go back to sleep."

He held a cup of steaming malted milk to the man's lips. He drank it slowly. Then, turning an inquiring look on Dave, he murmured, "American?"

In another second he was lost in a sleeping stupor.

Dave twisted himself about and gazed down at the panorama of purple shadows that flitted along beneath them.

"Patient doing well," he murmured at last. "Going due north by west. Forty miles an hour, I'd say. Beautiful prospects for all of us, Mr. Jarvis. Going right on into a land that does not belong to anybody and where nobody lives. Upon which hundred thousand square miles would you prefer to land?"

Jarvis did not answer. He was dreaming day dreams of other adventures he had had in that strange no man's land.

Finally he shook himself and mumbled:

"No 'opes. No 'opes."

"Oh, I wouldn't say it was as bad as that," smiled Dave. "Let's have a cup of tea."

"Yes, let's," murmured Jarvis.



CHAPTER X

PLAYING A LONE HAND

Hardly had Johnny Thompson in Vladivostok uttered his warning to the doctor than a figure leaped out at him from a dark doorway. Not having expected an attack from this direction, Johnny was caught unprepared. A knife flashed. He felt a heavy impact on his chest. A loud snap followed by a scream from his assailant. There came the wild patter of fleeing footsteps, then the little drama ended.

"Hurt?" inquired the doctor, a deep concern expressed in his tone.

"Nope," Johnny smiled. "But I'm afraid the rascal's ripped a hole in one of my moose-hide sacks. The gold is leaking out."

"Hang the gold!" ejaculated the doctor. "Let it go. It's done its part—saved your life. An armor of gold! I'd say that's some class!"

"That's all right," said Johnny, still keeping an eye out for other assailants. "But sentiment won't buy biscuits and honey for starving children. Gold will. Give us a hand at stopping the leak."

"Go easy," admonished the doctor, "you'll give the whole thing away."

They worked cautiously, revealing nothing to a possible prying eye. When the task was completed, Johnny stooped to pick up the hilt of the broken blade. He turned it over and over in his hand, regarding it curiously.

"Oriental, all right," he murmured. "I wonder if those little rascals could have beaten us here."

"Come on," exclaimed the doctor impatiently, "this is no place for wondering. I'm for a safe place inside somewhere."

A few turns brought them to Red Cross headquarters, and to one of the big surprises of Johnny's rather adventurous life. He had hardly crossed the threshold when his lips framed the word:

"Mazie!"

Could he believe his eyes? Yes, there she was, the girl chum of his boyhood days, the girl who had played tennis and baseball with him, who had hiked miles upon miles with him, who swam the sweeping Ohio river with him. The girl who, in Chicago, having tried to locate him, had come near to losing her life in a submarine.

"Mazie! Mazie!" he whispered. Then, "How did you come here?"

"By boat, of course," smiled Mazie. "How'd you think?" She took both his hands in hers.

"But, Mazie, this is a man's place. It's dangerous. Besides, what—"

"What's my business? Well, you see, I'm your agent. I'm going to spend all that splendid gold you've been digging to help the orphans. I'm 'M.' It was I who did all that frantic wireless stuff. Did you get it?"

"I did," smiled Johnny, "and if I'd known it was you I would have come on by wireless."

"But now," he said, after a moment's reflection, "as Jerry the Rat would say, 'Wot's de lay?'"

Mazie sighed. "Honest, Johnny, have you the gold? Because if you haven't, it's 'Home, James,' for me. These Russians are the most suspicious people! They've threatened to put me aboard ship twenty times because I wasn't making good. I wasn't feeding anybody, as I have said I would. And, oh, Johnny!" she gripped his arm, "the last three days I've been so frightened! Every time I ventured out, day or night, I have seen little yellow men dogging my footsteps; not Japanese military police, but just little yellow men."

"Hm," grunted Johnny, "I fancy Doc and I met one of them just now. He seemed to know us, too. Here's his dagger."

"Broken?" exclaimed Mazie. "How?"

Johnny stepped to the door of the small parlor and closed it.

"Gold," he whispered, "an armor of gold."

From beneath his coat he drew a sack of gold.

"Yes, Mazie, we've got the gold—plenty of it. Again I ask you, 'Wot's de lay?'"

Mazie clasped her hands in glad surprise. For fully three minutes she acted the part of a happy child dancing around a Christmas tree, with Johnny doing the part of Christmas tree and delighted parent all in one.

At last, she came down to earth.

"What we need is food and shelter for the poor little wretches. Oh, Johnny, I can't tell you—"

"Don't need to," interrupted Johnny, "I soldiered in this God-forgotten hole for nine months. Tell me what we can do first and fastest."

"Well, there's a great empty hotel down in the street St. Jacobs. It has a wonderful dining-room, big enough for a thousand women and children. We can rent it for gold."

"For gold," said Johnny, setting a sack of gold on the table.

"Then we can get rice and sweet potatoes from China by ship, for gold."

"For gold," again echoed Johnny, banging three heavy sacks on the table.

"Oh, aren't you the Midas!" exclaimed Mazie, clapping her hands.

"But, Johnny," she said presently, "there's one more thing. It's hard, and I'm afraid a bit dangerous. Rice and sweet potatoes are not enough for starving people."

"I'll say not."

"They need soup. Many would die without it. Soup means meat. We must have it. The nearest cattle are a hundred miles away. The Mongols have them. They are the border traders between China and Russia, you know. They have cattle—hundreds of them. They can be bought for gold."

"For gold," smiled Johnny, patting his chest which still bulged suspiciously. "I'll be off for the cattle in the morning. I'll leave Doc here to do what he can, and to look after you."

"Good!" exclaimed Mazie, clapping her hands again. "The Red Cross will supply you a band of trustworthy Russians to help drive the cattle here. The Mongols won't dare bring them."

"All right," said Johnny. "And now, what about the supposed hospitality of the Red Cross? I'm hungry. So is Doc."

"Right this way," and Mazie hurried through the door.

Half an hour later the two were enjoying such a meal as they had not eaten for months; not because of its bountifulness, nor richness, but because it was prepared by a woman.

"To-morrow," said Johnny, as he murmured good-night, "I am to venture into one more unknown land."

"Yes, and may your patron saint protect you as he has done in the past," said Mazie.

"My patron saint is a miss," smiled Johnny, "and her name is Mazie. Good-night."

* * * * *

Realizing that he was trapped, the instant that forms blocked the door of the machine sheds at the Seven Mines, Pant tackled the problem of escape. If these were natives or yellow men, they would treat him rough. If they were Bolsheviki, he could hope for no better fate. His only hope lay in escape. The place had no other door and no open windows. He must gain his freedom by strategy. Evidently, he must play the cat-and-mouse act about the piles of supplies and machinery.

As he dodged back to a position behind a large ore crusher, he managed to catch sight of the two men.

"Bolsheviki!" he gasped inaudibly. "What giants!"

Full-bearded giants they were, reminding him of nothing so much as of Bluebeard in the fairy books, or the Black Brothers in "The Lost River."

Seeming to scent him, as a dog scents a rat, they moved cautiously down the narrow passage between piles. As yet, they had not caught sight of him. Hope rose. Perhaps they would pass by him. Then he could make a dash for it. Yet, this was not entirely satisfactory. They would follow him, would see where he had gone, if he escaped to the mine. Then all his plans would go glimmering.

Instantly there flashed through his mind a bolder and, if it worked, a better plan. Moving close to the crusher, he put his hand to the great hopper that rested on and towered above it. This was made of iron and was fully eight feet wide and quite as deep. His keen eye measured the aperture at the bottom. No giant, such as these were, could crowd through that hole. And the hopper was heavy. Applying all his strength to it, he felt it give ever so slightly. It was not bolted down; it was merely balanced there. He would be able to topple it over. And, once over, it would be a difficult affair to handle, especially from beneath.

As he waited, his heart thumped so loudly that it seemed the Russians must hear and charge down upon him.

They came on cautiously, peering this way then that. He caught the gleam of a knife, the dull-black shine of an automatic. It was a man hunt, sure enough—and he was the man. Now they were five paces from him, now three, now two. His breath came in little inaudible gasps. His muscles knotted and unknotted.

And now the moment had come. The men were even with the crusher, on the opposite side from him. Gathering all his strength, he heaved away at the hopper. There followed a grinding sound, a shout of warning, then a dull thud. The enemy were trapped.

Pant spun round the crusher like a top. Seizing the wire he had arranged for his improvised sled, he rushed toward the door, dragging the batteries after him.

A glance backward came near convulsing him with laughter. One of the Russians had succeeded in thrusting his head through the narrow opening at the top of the inverted hopper. Here he stuck. To the boy, he resembled a backwoodsman encircled by a barber's huge apron.

But there was little time for mirth; business was at hand. New problems confronted him. Were other Bolsheviki near the shed? If so, then all was lost.

Poking his head out of the door, he peered about carefully. There was not a person in sight. The wind had risen.

"Good!" he muttered, "it will hide my tracks!"

He was soon speeding across the snow. In another five minutes he was peering like a woodchuck from his hole in the snowbank. His batteries were already inside. If he had not been observed, he had only to block his entrance and leave the wind to plaster it over with drifting snow.

As he looked his brow wrinkled. Then he dodged back, drawing the snow-cake door after him. The two Russians had emerged from the shed.

* * * * *

For hours on end the balloon, with Dave Tower, Jarvis and the stranger on board, now hundreds of miles from the mines, swept over the barren whiteness of unexplored lands. The sun went down and the moon shone in all its glory. The fleeting panorama below turned to triangles great and small—triangles of pale yellow and midnight blue. Now and again the earth seemed to rise up toward them. By this Dave and Jarvis knew that they were drifting over snow-capped hills. When it receded, they knew they were over the tundra. Sometimes they caught the silver flash and gleam of a river the ice of which had been kept clear of snow by the incessant sweep of the wind.

As Dave crouched by the plate-glass window staring down at that wonderful and terrible spectacle of an unknown land, he asked himself the question: "Was this land ever viewed by mortal man?"

The answer could be only a surmise. Perhaps some struggling band of political exiles, fighting their way through summer's tundra swamps and over winter's blizzard-swept hills, had passed this way, or lingered to die here. Who could tell? Surely nothing was known of the mineral wealth, the fish, the game, the timber of this unexplored inland empire. What a field to dream of!

His mind was drawn from its revels by a groan from the stranger. He was awake and conscious. Propping himself half up on an elbow, he stared about him.

"Where am I?" He sank back, an expression of amazement and fear written on his face.

"Who are you?" asked Dave.

"I—why—I," the man's consciousness appeared to waver for a second. "Why, I'm Professor Todd from Tri-State University."

"What were you doing with the Orientals?"

"Orientals?" The man looked puzzled. "Orientals? Oh, you mean the natives; the Chukches. Why, I was studying them. Getting their language, taking pictures, getting phonographic records, and—"

Suddenly the man's face went white.

"Where—where are we?" he stammered through tight-set lips. The balloon, caught in a pocket of thin air, had caused the car to lurch.

"Taking a little trip," said Dave reassuringly. "You're all right. We'll land after a bit."

"Land? So we are on a ship? I've been sick? We're going home. It is well. Life with the Chukches was rotten, positively rotten—positive—"

His voice trailing off into nothingness. He was asleep again.

Dave stared at him. Here was a new mystery. Was this man lying? Had he been in collusion with the Orientals, and was he trying to hide that fact; or had the rap on his head caused a lapse of memory, which blotted out all recollections of the affair in the case and mine?

"Look, Dave!" exclaimed Jarvis suddenly, "as I live it's the City of Gold!"

In the east the sun was just peeping over the horizon. But Jarvis was not looking in that direction. He was looking west. There, catching the sun's first golden glow, some object had cast it back, creating a veritable conflagration of red and gold.

Dave, remembering to have viewed such a sight in other days, and in what must have been something of the same location, stared in silence for a full minute before he spoke:

"If it is," he said slowly, "there's only one salvation for us. We've got to get down out of the clouds. The last time I saw that riot of color it was on the shore of the ocean, or very near it, and to drift over the Arctic Ocean in this crazy craft is to invite death."

He sprang for the door which led to the narrow plank-way about the cabin and to the rigging where the valve-cord must hang suspended.



CHAPTER XI

DANGLING IN MID AIR

Before dawn, the morning after his interview with Mazie, Johnny was away for the camp of the Mongols. There was a moist freshness in the air which told of approaching spring, yet winter lingered.

It was a fair-sized cavalcade that accompanied him; eight burly Russians on horseback and six in a sled drawn by two stout horses. For himself he had secured a single horse and a rude sort of cutter. He was not alone in the cutter. Beside him sat a small brown person. This person was an Oriental. There could be no mistake about that. Mazie had told him only that here was his interpreter through whom all his dealings with the Mongols would be done.

He wondered much about the interpreter. He had met with some fine characters among the brown people. There had been Hanada, his school friend, and Cio-Cio-San, that wonder-girl who had traveled with him. He had met with some bad ones too, and that not so long ago. His experiences at the mines had made him, perhaps, unduly suspicious.

He did not like it at all when he found, after a long day of travel and two hours of supper and pitching camp, with half the journey yet to go, that this little yellow person proposed to share his skin tent for the night. At first he was inclined to object. Yet, when he remembered the feeling that existed between these people and the Russians, he realized at once that he could scarcely avoid having the interpreter for a tent-mate.

Nothing was said as the two, with a candle flickering and flaring between them, prepared to slip into their sleeping-bags for the night.

When, at last, the candle was snuffed out, Johnny found that he could not sleep. The cold air of the long journey had pried his eyes wide open; they would not go shut. He could think only of perils from small yellow people. He was, indeed, in a position to invite treachery, since he carried on his person many pounds of gold. He, himself, did not know its exact value; certainly it was thousands of dollars. He had taken that which the doctor had carried, and had left the doctor to do what he could for the sufferers, and to assist Mazie in her preparations of the great kitchens and dining-room where thousands were to be fed.

For a long time, he thought of treachery, of dark perils, reaching a bloody hand out of the dark. But presently a new and soothing sensation came to him. He dreamed of other days. He was once more on the long journey north, the one he had taken the year previous. Cio-Cio-San was sleeping near him. They were on a great white expanse, alone. There was no peril; all was peace.

So great was the illusion that he scratched a match and gazed at the sleeping face near him.

He gave a little start at the revelation it brought. Certainly, there was a striking resemblance here to the face of Cio-Cio-San. Yet, he told himself, it could not be. This person was a man. And, besides, Cio-Cio-San was now rich. She was in her own country living in luxury and comfort, a lady bountiful among her own people.

He told himself all this, and yet so much of the illusion remained that he fell asleep and slept soundly until the rattle of harness and the shout of horsemen told him that morning was upon them and they must be off.

He looked for his companion. He was gone. When Johnny had dressed, he found the interpreter busily assisting with the morning repast.

"Just like Cio-Cio-San," he muttered to himself, as he dipped his hands into icy water for a morning splash.

* * * * *

After his escape from the two Bolsheviki in the machine shed, Pant sat by the entrance to his mine in breathless expectancy. The two Russians certainly had not seen him enter the mine, but others might have done so, and, more than that, there was grave danger that they would track him to his place of hiding.

He was not surprised when his alert ear caught a sound from without, close at hand. He only crowded a little further back into the corner, that the light from the broken-in entrance, providing it was discovered and crushed, should not fall upon him.

His heart thumped loudly. His hand gripped his automatic. He expected immediate action from without. His hopes of reaching the mother-lode of this mine vanished. He thought now only of escape.

But action was delayed. Now and then there came sounds as of footsteps and now a scratching noise reached his ear. The crust of the snow was hard. Perhaps they were attempting to tear it away with some crude implement, a stick or board.

As he listened, he heard the whine of a dog. So this was it? One of their hounds had tracked him down. They were probably afraid of him and would wait for him to come out.

"In that case," he whispered to himself, "they will wait a long, long time."

He did not desert his post. To be caught in the far end of the mine meant almost certain torture and death.

As he listened, he heard the dog's whine again and again, and it was always accompanied by the scratching sound. What could that mean? A hound which has found the lair of its prey does not whine. He bays his message, telling out to all the world that he has cornered his prey.

The more the boy thought of it, the more certain he became that this was not one of the Russian hounds. But if not, then what dog was it? Perhaps one of Johnny Thompson's which had escaped. If it were, he would be a friend.

Of one thing Pant became more and more positive: there were no men with the dog. From this conclusion he came to a decision on a definite course of action. If the dog was alone, whether friend or foe, he would eventually attract attention and that would bring disaster. The logical thing to do would be to pull out the snow-cake door and admit the beast. If he were one of the Russians wolf-hounds—Pant drew a short-bladed knife from his belt; an enemy's dog would be silenced with that.

With trembling fingers he gripped the white door and drew it quickly away. The next instant a furry monster leaped toward him.

It was a tense moment. In the flash of a second, he could not determine the character of the dog. His knife gleamed in his hand. To delay was dangerous. The beast might, in a twinkle, be at his throat.

He did not strike. With a supple motion he sprang to one side as the dog shot past him. By the time he had turned back toward the entrance, Pant recognized him as a white man's dog.

"Well, howdy, old sport," he exclaimed, as the dog leaped upon him, ready to pull him to pieces out of pure joy.

"Down, down, sir!"

The dog dropped at his feet. In another minute the snow-door was in its place again.

"Well, old chap," said Pant, peering at the dog through his goggles. "You came to share fortunes with me, did you? The little yellow men had a tiger; I've got a dog. That's better. A tiger'd leave you; a dog never. Besides, old top, you'll tell me when there's danger lurking 'round, won't you? But tell me one thing now: did anyone see you come in here?"

The dog beat the damp floor with his tail.

"Well, if they did, it's going to be mighty tough for you and me, that's all I've got to say about it."

* * * * *

Upon opening the door to the cabin of the balloon, after catching the gleam of the supposed domes of the City of Gold, Dave Tower found, to his great relief, that they had dropped to a considerably lower level than that reached by them many hours before. He was able to stand exposure to this outer air.

He began at once to search for cords which would allow gas to escape from the balloon.

"Should be a valve-cord and a rip-cord somewhere," he muttered to himself, "but you can never tell what these Orientals are going to do about such things."

As he gazed away toward the north, he was sure he caught sight of dark purple patches between the white.

"Might just be shadows and might be pools of salt water between the ice-floes. If we land on the ocean, good night!"

Hurriedly he searched the rigging for dangling cords. He found none. If there had been any, they had been thrown up and tangled above by the tossing of the balloon.

Dave stared dizzily upward to where the giant sausage drifted silently on. It was a sheer fifty feet. To reach this there was but one means, a slender ladder of rope. Could he do it? Could he climb to the balloon and slit it before they reached the ocean?

It was their only chance. If the City of Gold was not a complete illusion; if human beings lived there at all, they might hope for food and shelter. There were chemicals in the cabin for re-inflating the balloon. A fair wind, or the discovery of the method of operating that Oriental engine, might insure them a safe voyage home. But once they were out over the ocean—his heart went sick at the thought of it.

Gripping the rounds of the ladder, he began to climb. It was a perilous task. Now with a sinking sensation he felt the ladder apparently drop from beneath him. The balloon had struck a pocket of air. And now he felt himself lifted straight up a fleeting hundred feet.

Holding his breath, he waited. Then, when the motion was stable, he began to climb again. He had covered two-thirds of the distance, was staring up at the bulk that now seemed almost upon his very head, when, with a little cry, he felt his foot crash through a rotten strand. It was a second of dreadful suspense. Madly he grasped the rope sides of the ladder. His left hand slipped, but his right held firm. There, for a fraction of time that seemed an eternity, supported by only one hand, he hung out over thousands of feet of airy space.

His left hand groped for the ropes which eluded his grasp. He gripped and missed, gripped and missed. Then he caught it and held on. He was holding firmly now with both hands. But how his arms ached! With his feet he began kicking for the ladder, which, swinging and bagging in the wind, seemed as elusive as a cobweb. At last, when strength was leaving him, he doubled up his knees and struck out with both feet. They fell upon something and stuck there. They had found a round of the ladder. Hugging the ropes, he panted for breath, then slowly worked himself to a more natural position.

"Huh!" he breathed at last. "Huh! Gee! That makes a fellow dizzy!"

He had climbed ten steps further when a cry of joy escaped his lips:

"The valve-cord!"

It was true. By his side dangled a small rope which reached to the balloon.

Gripping this he gave it a quick pull and was rewarded at once by the hiss of escaping gas.

"Good!" he muttered to himself, as he prepared for his downward climb. "Trust an Oriental to make things hard. Suppose they thought if they had it any closer to the car the children might raise the dickens by playing with it."

He swung there relaxed. They were dropping. He could tell that plainly enough. Now he could distinguish little lines of hills, now catch the course of a river, now detect the rows of brown willows that lined its banks.

He looked for the gleam of the City of Gold. There was none. The sun had evidently climbed too high for that.

His eyes roamed to the north. Then his lips uttered a cry:

"The ocean! We can't escape it!"



CHAPTER XII

THE RUSSIAN DAGGER

Johnny Thompson, with his interpreter by his side, found himself in the camp of the Mongols. It was a vast tented city, a moving city of traders. Down its snow-trod streets drifted yellow people of all descriptions. Men, women and children moved past him. Some were young, some very old. All appeared crafty and capable of treachery.

"It was against these people that the Chinese built their great wall," said Johnny thoughtfully. "I don't wonder."

"When do we see his highness, the great high chief who deals in cattle?"

His interpreter smiled. "I have just come from there. We may go to see him now."

Johnny twisted one shoulder as if adjusting a heavy burden, then turned to follow the interpreter.

He did not like the looks of things; he longed to be safely back in Vladivostok with Mazie. There were times like this when he wished he had not taken it upon himself to play the fairy godfather to Russia's starving hosts. But since he had undertaken the task, however difficult it might prove, he must carry on.

He soon found himself sitting cross-legged on a floor so deeply imbedded in soft, yielding skins that he sank half out of sight beneath them. Before him, also reposing in this sea of softness, was a Mongol of unusual size, whose face was long and solemn. He puffed incessantly at a long-stemmed Russian pipe.

Forming the third corner of the triangle, was the little interpreter.

The two members of the yellow race conversed in low tones for some time. At last the interpreter turned to Johnny:

"I have told him that you want to buy cattle, much cattle. He say, how much you want to pay? How you want to pay? How much you want to buy?"

"You tell him that I saw six of his cattle out here just now. They are very poor. But we will take them—maybe. Ask him how much?"

"He say, have you got gold?"

"You say," grinned Johnny, "that we have got gold. We don't need a button-hook to button up our purse, but we've got gold. We pay gold. How much?"

The interpreter puckered up his brow and conveyed the message. The Mongol mumbled an answer.

"He say, how much you want pay?"

"Tell him for six cattle I pay one pound gold. All same."

He drew from his pocket a small leather sack, and unlacing the strings held it open before the Mongol.

The crafty eyes of the trader half closed at sight of the glistening treasure. His greedy fingers ran through it again and again. Then he grunted.

"He say," droned the interpreter, "how much cattle you want to buy?"

"Maybe three hundred," stated Johnny casually.

The interpreter started, but delivered the message.

The Mongol, upon receiving this word, sprang from the furs like a jack from his box and hot words rushed rapidly from his lips.

When he had finished, the interpreter explained that he said Johnny was jesting with him. It was impossible that anyone would buy three hundred head of cattle with gold in the starving land of Russia.

The Mongol sank back to his place among the furs, and the bickering was continued. For two hours it waged, ending finally by the promise of the Mongol that, in the morning, the cattle should be at hand; that they would be better than those Johnny had seen; and that Johnny's "beggarly" price of one pound of gold for six cattle would be accepted.

Once the bargaining was over, the Mongol was transformed in a second's time into the most charming of hosts. Johnny and his interpreter must dine with him. Yes, indeed! They must sleep in his tent that night. They should talk long and of many things. It was not often that he had the honor of playing host to such a rich and clever guest. Indeed, it was not. But they should not converse so long together that Johnny and his most excellent interpreter should be robbed of their night's repose.

Several hours later, Johnny was buried to the point of smothering beneath rugs of fur that would bring the price of a king's ransom. His mind was still in a whirl. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps the excitement of big business, and again, it may have been a premonition of things to happen. Whatever it may have been, he could not sleep.

His racing mind whispered to him of treachery out of the night. It had been a wonderful evening. They had been treated to a feast such as he had seldom dreamed of. Surely these Mongols could concoct from beef, rice, sweet potatoes and spices the most wonderful of viands. And, as for tea, he had never tasted real tea before. The aroma of it still haunted his nostrils.

And the Mongol had told him many things. He had traveled far, had this trader; he had seen much. He spoke of Russia, of China, Japan and India. He told of matters that made Johnny's blood run cold, of deeds done in that border-land between great countries, each seething with revolution and bloodshed. Not that he, the Mongolian, had done these things, but he had seen them accomplished. And he had traded for the spoils, the spoils of rich Russians driven from their own land and seeking refuge in another. He was a trader. It was his business. He must have profit. What should one do? If he did not take the riches, another would. But as for committing these deeds himself, Confucius forbid it; he had scowled to show his disapproval.

At the same time, as Johnny thought it all through, and felt the hard lumps about him that were sacks of gold, he found it very difficult to fall asleep.

His interpreter, lying not an arm's length away, breathed with the steady ease of one in deep slumber. The Mongol had drawn a curtain of ermine skins between them and his own bed. Could it be that this interpreter had made his way into the good graces of Mazie only to turn murderer and robber at the proper time? Johnny had only Mazie's word that the person could be trusted, and Mazie was but a girl, not accustomed to the deep-seated treachery in the oriental mind.

He had traveled far that day; he had talked long and dined well; he was a healthy human being; and sleep came at last.

How long he had slept, he did not know when he was awakened by an indescribable sensation. Had he heard something, felt something? He could not tell. He breathed on, the steady deep breath of a sleeper, and did not stir, but he opened an eye a mere crack. A shadow stretched across him. It was made by a person who stood between him and an oriental lamp which flickered dimly in the corner. His eye sought the place where the interpreter lay. The skins were too deep there and he could not tell whether he was there or not.

The shadow shifted. The person was moving into view. He could see him now. He was short and brown of face.

"The interpreter!" These words formed themselves on his lips, but were not spoken.

The next second he knew it was not the interpreter, for there came a stir at his side as the interpreter sat up.

So there were two of them. Treachery! Well, he should not die alone. His hand gripped the cold steel of his automatic. He tilted it ever so slightly. Fired from where it lay, it would send a bullet crashing through the crouching interpreter's chest. He was about to pull the trigger when something arrested his attention.

A blade gleamed in the hand of the interpreter. Even in this darkness, he recognized the weapon as one he had taken from a would-be murderer, a Russian Chukche. He had given it to a very good friend, a Japanese lady—Cio-Cio-San!

A cold chill ran down his spine. Had he come near killing a friend? Was this one crouching in the act of defending him against an enemy? Cold perspiration stood out upon his brow. He made a tremendous effort to continue breathing evenly. He could only take a desperate chance and await the turn of events.

* * * * *

Hardly had Dave Tower discovered the imminent peril of drifting out over the ice-packed sea, than a ray of hope came to him. Scattered along the mainland of this vast continent there was, here and there, an island. Should they be so fortunate as to drift upon one of these, they might be saved.

Hurriedly climbing down from his perilous perch, he hastened to inform Jarvis of their position.

"Blind my eyes!" exclaimed Jarvis. "Wot don't 'appen to us ain't worth 'appenin'."

Then Dave told him of his hope that there might be an island ahead.

"I 'opes so," said Jarvis, as he seized a glass and rushed outside to scan the broken surface of the sea.

In the meantime, the balloon was sinking rapidly. It was only a matter of time until the cabin would bump upon an ice-pile. Then it was doubtful if even the quickest action could save their lives.

They brought the stranger, who was now able to sit up and stare about him, to the outer deck. He gazed down at the swaying, flying landscape and was badly frightened when he discovered that they were in midair, but Dave reassured him, while Jarvis brought sleeping-bags and boxes of food to a position by the rail.

"If the worst 'appens, we'll at least h'eat and sleep on the floe until it 'eaps up an' buries us," he grumbled.

"Land ahead!" exclaimed Dave suddenly, throwing down his glasses and rushing inside the cabin. He was out again in a moment, bearing on his shoulder a coil of steel cable, and dragging a heavy land anchor after him.

"We may be able to save the old boat yet," he yelled excitedly. "Jarvis, bring out the rope ladder."

Jarvis hastened inside and reappeared almost immediately with the ladder.

"It's an island," said Dave, "and, as far as I can judge, we're only two or three hundred feet from its surface when we get above it. We'll throw over the anchor and if it catches somewhere, we'll go down the ladder. In time the balloon will lose gas enough to bring her to earth."

"You 'ave a good 'ead, me lad," approved Jarvis. "'Ere's 'opin' it 'appens that way!"

It did happen that way, and, in due course of time, the three men found themselves on the brow of a low plateau which seemed as deserted as the pyramids of Egypt, and quite as barren of life.

"One thing's sure," said Dave. "We've got to get the gas back into that old cloth tank and catch a fair wind, or get that engine to working, if we don't wish to starve."

"Aye," said Jarvis.

"There's a strange pile of rocks up on the ledge there. I'm going for a look at it," said Dave.

He returned in a few moments, mingled excitement and amusement on his face.

"Jarvis," he smiled happily, "we're not so badly off, after all. Here we are right back in old United States of America!"

"United States?" Jarvis stared.

"Says so in this message I found in a brass can. Says—"

Dave broke off suddenly. Something on the crest to the right of them had caught his attention. Grasping his automatic, Dave went skulking away in the shadow of the hill.

Jarvis, too, had seen it and awaited the outcome of this venture with eager expectancy.



CHAPTER XIII

CIO-CIO-SAN

Hardly had Johnny Thompson's finger lessened its pressure on the trigger of his automatic, than the interpreter sprang straight at the figure that cast the shadow.

A scream rent the air.

With a spring, Johnny was on his feet, just in time to see one of the figures drop. In the dim light he could not tell which one. He stood there motionless. It had all happened so quickly that he was stunned into inactivity.

In that brief moment bedlam broke loose. The Mongol chief sprang from behind his curtain. Other Mongols, deserting all night games of chance, came swarming in on all sides. Their jargon was unintelligible. Johnny could not tell them what had happened, even had he rightly known.

The fallen man was dragged out upon the snow, where his blood made a rapidly spreading dark circle on the crystal whiteness. He was dead beyond a doubt.

Slowly the group settled in a dense ring about some one who was talking rapidly. Evidently the survivor of the tragedy was explaining. Was it the interpreter or the other? Johnny could not crowd close enough to tell.

He flashed his electric torch upon the fallen body. The sight of the hilt protruding from the chest, over the heart, gave Johnny a start. His interpreter had won. It was his knife that had made the fatal thrust. The dead man was undoubtedly Oriental and not a member of the Mongolian tribe.

That knife! Johnny started. How had this person come into possession of that blade which he had given to Cio-Cio-San? That Cio-Cio-San would not give it away, he was certain. What then had happened? Had it been stolen from her, or was this strange interpreter, who had doubtless just now saved his life, Cio-Cio-San herself? It seemed unbelievable, yet his mind clung to the theory. He would soon know.

Slowly the crowd dispersed. The killing of an Oriental in such a camp as this was merely an incident in the life of the tribe, a thing soon to be forgotten. Two servants of the chief bore the body away. Once more Johnny found himself sitting in the triangle with his interpreter and the Mongol. In his hands he held two knives; one he had drawn from the heart of the dead man and had cleansed in the snow; the other was the one dropped by the murderer. This last one evidently had been meant for him.

The Mongol was profuse in his apologies, while he lauded to the sky the bravery of the little interpreter. The slain man, he explained, was no member of his company. He was one of three who had camped on the outer edge of the village that very night. Doubtless they had followed Johnny with the purpose of murdering and robbing him. He had sent at once for the other two men, but they had fled. He hoped now that his guests might sleep in peace.

After delivering this message, he bowed himself back through the curtains. Johnny and the interpreter were left alone. It was a dramatic moment. The interpreter's fingers twitched nervously. Once the brown eyes fell upon the knives Johnny held, but instantly they flashed away. Johnny had drawn a freshly lighted fish-oil lamp to his side.

"Friend," said he in a low tone, "you have done me a great service this night. Will you do me but one more?"

"Gladly, most gracious one."

The small head bent low.

"Allow me." Johnny took one of the brown hands, and began rolling up the loose sleeve of the brown-skin parka. The brown face blanched a trifle. He uncovered a sleeve of pink silk, and beneath that a slender brown arm. On the arm, a finger's length beneath the elbow, was a triangular scar.

Johnny sighed, then carefully rolling down the sleeve, dropped the hand.

"It is enough," he smiled, "you are my old and very dear friend, Cio-Cio-San. You have to-night added greatly to the debt of gratitude which I owe you and can never repay. But why did you come? And why, most of all, are you in disguise? Why are you in Russia at all? Why not in your beloved Japan?"

Cio-Cio-San sighed as if relieved at feeling the mask removed.

"I came to Russia to find a very dear relative who had lived with my family in the interior of Russia before this revolution came upon us. I met Mazie; your so good friend. She pressed me into her service. Who could refuse? I was glad to be of help.

"Then, because there was no Japanese man who could speak for you to the Mongols, she asked me to go. And, because it is unsafe for a woman to go on such a journey, undisguised, I dressed as a man. So, there you have it all. I am glad you know, you are a man of great honor. You will not tell others. You will protect me from them." There was no question in her voice.

Johnny put out his hand in silence. Her small brown one rested in his for a moment.

Then in drowsy silence they sat by the sputtering lamp until the tinkle of bell, the clatter of harness, the shout of drivers, and the distant lowing of cattle, told them it was another day.

That day's business was quickly brought to a close. Before the sun was high in the heavens, Johnny found himself once more tucked beside his interpreter in the cutter, slowly following his Russians, who drove a splendid herd of cattle over the snow-clad fields and hard-packed roads toward Vladivostok. Johnny owned that herd. Soon it would be supplying nourishment to the hungry little ones.

The return journey was crowded with recollections of other days, of those days when he and Cio-Cio-San had followed the glistening trail to the far Northland. But, as the spires of the cathedral in the city loomed up to greet him, Johnny's mind was filled with many wonderings and not a few misgivings. He was coming to the city of eastern Russia which more than any other had seen revolt and counter-revolt, pillage and sudden death. In that city now, starvation and disease stalked unmolested. In that city, the wary Japanese military police maintained order while many a rampant radical lurked in a corner to slay any who did not believe in his gospel of unlimited freedom and license. Into that city Johnny must go. Every man in it craved gold and food, and Johnny had both. He would use it for the good of the sufferers, if he was given time. But those who rob and kill, do not wait. He was troubled about Mazie. He had trusted gold to her care. Had he acted unwisely; subjected her to needless perils?

He thought of the Oriental who had attempted to take his life back there in the Mongol's camp. There had been a strong resemblance between this man and the band of men who had attempted to rob Mine No. 1. Had they secured reindeer and made their way to Vladivostok? If so, they would dog his trail, using every foul means to regain possession of the gold. And Mazie? If they had entered the city, had they discovered that part of the gold was in her hands? He shivered at the thought of it.

At last, leaving the cattle in a great yard, surrounded by a stone fence, some five miles from the outskirts, he drove hurriedly into Vladivostok.



CHAPTER XIV

NEARING THE CITY OF GOLD

The creature for which Dave had gone on a double-quick hunt, after the balloon had landed on the desert island, was a reindeer. He had probably crossed over on a solid floe from the mainland. It was his last crossing. Soon Dave came back dragging two hundred pounds of fresh meat behind him.

"No more 'gold fish' in cans," he exulted. "No more evaporated milk and pickled egg. We eat, Jarvis, we eat!"

"That's fine," smiled Jarvis, "but what's all the words you been spillin' about this bein' America?"

"Oh!" laughed Dave. "That was something of a joke, though this island really does belong to old U.S.A. Captain DeLong, an American, whose ship was crushed in the ice near this island, was its first discoverer. He claimed it in the name of his country and christened it Bennett Island. It says that in the message he left in his cairn. But that don't feed us. I'm starved. There's driftwood on the beach. C'mon."

Soon they were roasting strips of delicious venison over a crackling fire. Supper over, they lay down with faces to the fire and talked over prospects for the future. The stranger was with them, but had little to say. He seemed puzzled at the unusual circumstances of the journey and was constantly asking when they would return to the native village at the mouth of the river.

"Evidently," said Dave, after a long and fruitless attempt to draw from him any account of his life with the Orientals in the mine, "the rap he received on his head blotted out all memory of those days. If we can't get that particular stretch of memory in working order, we may never know how Frank Langlois was killed, nor who it was that sent us strange messages on phonographic records and moving-picture films. I'm hoping his memory'll come back. A sudden shock may bring it round at any time."

Their conference regarding the future resulted in a determination to wait for a change of wind which would insure them a safe trip to the mainland. In the meantime, Dave would prepare the chemicals for immediate inflation of the balloon and Jarvis would study over the Japanese puzzle of a gasoline engine which would not respond to his touch.

Jarvis' work netted nothing. Three days later an onshore wind arose, and the balloon, wafted upward on its gentle crest, brought the explorers back to the mainland.

"Land! Land! And the City of Gold!" exclaimed Jarvis, as the evening clouds lifted and gave them a momentary view of that strange golden gleam which for so long had haunted their dreams.

Once before, many months ago, the two of them had neared the spot on an ocean craft, but duty to marooned comrades had called them back. Now they had only themselves to think of, and the City of Gold, if city it be, would offer to them a haven of refuge.

What wonder that their hearts beat wildly as they caught its gleam and realized that in a very few moments they would be landing within a quarter of a mile of that mysterious city, which, according to the natives whom they had met long ago, did really exist as a place of many people and much gold.

"Pull the cord! Pull the cord!" shouted Jarvis excitedly. "We're nearin' shore."

He had spoken the truth. As Dave gripped the cord attached to the gas valve on the balloon and in his imagination heard the hiss of escaping gas and felt the drop of the balloon, his thoughts sobered. After all, what did they know about these strange people? What sort of treatment would they receive from them? If they landed they might, in less than an hour, be dead. Might it not be better to allow the balloon to rise and to attempt a journey back to some Russian town? But instantly he realized that this gale which was coming would carry them to the heart of Bolsheviki Russia. What chance would they have there?

"Pull the cord! Pull the cord!" insisted Jarvis.

Mechanically, Dave's hand came down. The hiss of air was followed by the sagging drop of the car. The die had been cast.

* * * * *

For an hour, after admitting the white man's dog to his secret mine, Pant sat listening for any sound that might tell of his discovery. After this, heaving a sigh of relief, he turned at once to the work that lay before him. He realized that whatever he did must be done soon.

Dragging the newly acquired batteries back to where the others were lined up along the wall, he attached one of them to the circuit, then threw in the switch which should set the buzz-saw mining machine into operation. An angry spit and flare was his only reward.

Nothing daunted, he cut in another battery, then another. As he touched the switch after attaching the third battery, a loud whirring sound rewarded him.

"Eureka! I have found it!" he cried, leaping high in air. "Now we win!"

The dog barked loudly at this singular demonstration, but since the vault-like mine was sound proof, it mattered little how noisy was his rejoicing.

The cutting machine was instantly set in operation. The sing of the wheel against the frozen earth was deafening. The earth-tremble, started by the machinery, could not fail to make itself felt outside the mine. But when he realized that only the yellow men knew the cause of such a tremble and that they were many miles from that spot, making their way south with dog team or reindeer, Pant had little fear. He would find his way to the mother-lode, would melt snow from the inside of the bank by the mine's entrance, would wash out the gold; then, if only he could evade the Russians and the Chukches, he would begin the southward journey.

Hour by hour, the stacks of dark brown cubes of frozen pay dirt grew at the sides of the mine. Hour by hour, the yellow glistened more brightly in the cubes. Yet he did not come to the mother-lode. He slept but little, taking short snatches now and then. Sometimes he fell asleep at his task. One thing began to worry him; the gasoline was running short. With no gasoline to run his motor, there could be no electric current, no power.

Now and again he fancied that men were prowling about the snow-blocked entrance. He knew these were only fancies. Sleepless days and nights were telling on his nerves. When would the rich pay come?

At last, while half asleep, he worked on the upper tiers of cubes, there came a jarring rattle which brought him up standing. The wheel had struck solid rock. This meant that there was a ledge, a former miniature fall in the river bed. At the foot of this fall, there would be a pocket, and in that pocket, much gold. The gasoline? There was yet enough. To-morrow he would clean up the mother-lode. Then he would be away.

He stumbled, as in a dream, to his blankets, and, wrapping them about him, fell into a stupor that was sleep and more.

* * * * *

As the balloon, in which Dave Tower and Jarvis rode, drifted toward the shore of the mainland, Dave, shading his eyes, watched the yellow gleam of the City of Gold darken to a purplish black, then back to a dull gray.

"Man, it's gone. I 'ates to look," groaned Jarvis. "It's gone, the City of Gold."

Dave had been expecting something like this to happen. "Probably the surface of some gigantic rock, polished by wind and rain, reflecting the rays of the sun," was his mental comment. He did not have the heart to express his thoughts to Jarvis.

They drifted on. Suddenly Dave dived into the cabin and returned with a pair of powerful binoculars. He turned these on the spot where the shining City of Gold had been.

What he saw brought an exclamation to his lips. It died there unuttered. "After all," he thought to himself, "it may be nothing, just nothing at all."

What he had seen was still brownish gray in color, but instead of the flat even surface of a rock broken here and there by irregular fissures, he had seen innumerable squares, placed as regularly as the roofs of a house. "Nature does not build that way. Man must have had a hand in it. Here's hoping." Such were his mental comments as he saw land rise up to meet them. Were they nearing an inhabited land?

He did not have long to wait for the answer. As the balloon drifted in over the land, figures ran across the snow, in evident pursuit of the drifting "sausage."

Jarvis, who had taken the glass, let out a roar. "It's 'uman's, me lad, 'uman bein's it is, and if it's no one but the bloody, bloomin' 'eathen, I'll be glad to see 'em."

He was right. As the anchor, catching in a claybank, jerked the balloon to a sudden halt, they could see the people racing toward the point where the car was sure to land.

Dave's mind was in a whirl. First his right hand gripped his automatic, next it hung limp at his side. What manner of people were they, anyway? If that broad flat surface of little squares meant the roof of a building, then these certainly were not natives, Chukches or Eskimos. Those always lived in houses of deer skin or snow. And, if it was a house, what an immense thing it must be. A hundred feet long, perhaps two hundred, and half as wide.

There was little time for speculation. The balloon carriage dropped rapidly. Their daft professor hung to the rail, babbling incoherent things about returning to the mouth of the Anadir. Jarvis was silent. Evidently there was but one thing to do; to trust themselves to the tender mercies of these people.

As the cabin bumped the snowy tundra, Dave sprang over the rail, followed by Jarvis, who assisted the still feeble professor.

They found themselves at once in the midst of a curious-eyed group of people. These, with their long beards and droll clothing and droll manners, made Dave feel as if he were another Rip Van Winkle entering a land of dreams.

In the crowd there were some twenty men, slowly straggling in. There was a woman of middle age, and beside her a girl of about sixteen years, evidently her daughter. Dave's eyes approved of the girl, and though she was a stranger to his tongue, she did not fail to find an immediate means of letting him know that she looked upon him with much favor.

All these people were dressed in skins, fawn skins for the most part, though there were occasional garments of leather. The garments were not cut at all after the manner of Chukches or Eskimos. The girl wore a skirt and a loose middy-like jacket of white buckskin, the skin of which had been split thin. The garments suited her wonderfully well.

Dave had concluded, before one of them spoke, that they were Russians. When the oldest man of the group attempted to address him, he knew his guess to be correct, though he understood not one word of what was being said.

"But what," he asked himself, "are these people doing here so far within the Arctic Circle, and how do they live?"

Having made it evident that he did not understand their language, he awaited further attempts at conversation. Other languages were tried with no success, until a man of thirty years or past suddenly said:

"Do you speak English?"

Dave could have wept on his shoulders for pure joy. What he did do was to extend his hand with a hearty, "Put her there, old chap, that's just what I do!"

"You must be hungry," said the new-found friend.

"We could eat," admitted Dave.

"Come this way."

Having made sure that the balloon was in a safe position, Dave and Jarvis, assisting the professor, followed their host round a point of rock and up to a row of cabins on the southern side of the hill. Having entered one of these, they were invited to sit down while the professor was helped to a room in the rear and tucked into bed.

"Now, gentlemen," said the stranger, "we can offer you only venison and fresh sweet potatoes for your main course. You will perhaps not mind that. But in the matter of salads, we can give you a little choice. Will you have head lettuce or sliced cucumbers?" He smiled genially.

Dave looked at Jarvis; Jarvis stared at Dave. Was this man jesting? Head lettuce and cucumbers in mid-winter, inside the Arctic Circle? What a rank impossibility! Yet the man did not smile.

"Mine's 'ead lettuce an' a little whale blubber," laughed Jarvis.

"And yours?" smiled the host, turning to Dave.

"S-s-same," stammered Dave,

"'E's a jolly sport," sighed Jarvis, as the man went out. "Next 'e'll offer strawberries for dessert."

Imagine their utter astonishment when the man returned presently with a wooden tray heavily laden with food, and on it, not only two heaping wooden bowls of head lettuce, but two smaller bowls of luscious red strawberries, and beside each of these, a little wooden pitcher of rich cream.

"Sorry we have to offer our food in such plain dishes," smiled the host. "We have experimented with pottery but have had no success as yet." He bowed himself out of the room.

"Dave, old pal," said Jarvis, "don't move, don't speak to me. Don't wake me up. I'm 'aving such a beautiful dream."



CHAPTER XV

TRAPPED

The day following his locating of the mother-lode, Pant worked feverishly. Hardly four hours had passed when he found himself digging away the heart of the snowbank that blocked the entrance to his cave and melting it that he might wash the pans of rich gold that were now being thawed from the cavity beneath the one-time river falls.

"Going to be a rich haul," he whispered to his dog, "richer than Mine No. 2, not so rich as No. 1, but rich enough all right. And if we can make our getaway, Oh, boy!"

Only one thing troubled him as he worked. Not having been outside at the time the blizzard was piling snow about the entrance to the cave, he could not tell the exact depth of the snowbank; could not be sure that he was not removing too much of the snow and leaving too thin a crust above.

This did not worry him greatly, however. The hard-packed snow would not crumble in easily. So he cut away at it until there was a hollow space at the mine's entrance twenty feet long and half as wide.

Meanwhile, he was panning the pay dirt and putting it away in carefully sewed, split walrus-skin sacks. At times, he paused to rub his hands together like Midas, as he stowed away another sack on the top of a small sled which was hidden in a corner. On this sled were a sleeping-bag and a little food. When their work was completed and the gold all loaded on, he and the dog would harness themselves to this sled and steal out into the night. If they were successful in evading the Bolsheviki, the natives, and the little yellow men, they would hurry on to the south where there was a reindeer station. There he would barter his watch and other valuables for two sled deer. He would hate parting with the dog, but he could not take him with the reindeer.

The mine had been fairly stripped of its wealth and the sled loaded down with gold, when, as he drank his coffee, munched his hard biscuit, and thought things through, he was startled by a growl from the dog. The next instant there came the dull thud of falling snow-crust, followed by the jarring thump of a heavy body. A startled expression uttered in Russian brought Pant to his feet with his hand on his automatic.

Realizing that one of the Russians had blundered upon the snow above the entrance, that it had caved in with him, and that the only chance of safety was in "getting" that Russian before he made his escape, he dashed down the mine. An unfortunate step threw him to the floor. This lost him the race. On reaching the spot, he found the Russian had vanished.

"Well, old pal," he said, addressing the dog, "that means we gotta get out, and mighty quick, too. That fellow's not coming back alone. Bolsheviki'll be swarming up here like bees in less time than it takes to tell it."

He stood silent for a moment. Then he sprang into action.

"I've got an idea!"

Seizing the long knife from a shelving rock at the side of the entrance, he began cutting cubes of snow from the bank. Working along the edge of the rocky cliff, where the bank was thickest, he soon had a side tunnel well started. He worked with feverish haste. It was only a matter of moments until the whole Bolshevik band would be upon him. To come out into the open was to invite death. To hide away in the side cavity in the snow with his gold, to wait until they had all entered the mine, then to burrow his way out and make his escape, seemed his only hope.

When he had tunneled into the bank ten or twelve feet and hurriedly arranged some blocks for closing the opening, he raced to the back of the mine for his sled. He had just made a grab for the draw-strap, when there came a sound from the entrance.

He was trapped. They had come. His heart skipped a few beats. How many there were, he could not tell, but more than enough. He must act and act quickly, and, even so, all seemed lost. On one thing he was determined; he would not abandon the gold save as a last resort.

The dog, exercising an almost human sagacity, uttered not a single growl, but hung close to his master's side.

Exerting all his strength, the boy threw the heavily laden sled upon his back; then, in a crouching posture, he began making his way toward the entrance. There was no light, yet he made his way without a second's hesitation, round little piles of frozen earth and over heaps of stone and gravel. Not a rock was loosed, not a sound made by his soft, padded footsteps, as he moved swiftly along the passage.

Now he was a quarter way to the entrance, now half. No definite plan of action had entered his mind. He knew only that, in some way, he must make good his escape.

Suddenly a light flared. A match had been struck. A bearded face flickered behind it in the shadows, then another and another. There followed a steadier gleam of light.

"A candle!" the boy whispered in despair.

He shrank back into the deeper shadows. The procession of grizzled giants moved forward with caution. Soon they were twenty feet from him and then only ten. It seemed inevitable that he should be seen.

The moment for action had arrived. In his right hand was a heavy lump of frozen pay dirt. With a sure twist of the wrist he sent this crashing into the candle. Amid the curses of the men, the candle snuffed out. The next instant, there came a thundering crash. Pant had overturned a whole tier of pay dirt cubes.

In the midst of the confusion that followed, he made his escape. Scorning his snow-den, in which he was to have hidden, he scrambled out of the main entrance and, with the sled shooting on before him down the steep incline, headed straight toward the ice-blocked ocean.

It was but a matter of moments until he found himself effectually lost in the labyrinth of ice piles and up-ended cakes on that endless expanse of ice that lined the shore.

Breathing more easily, he sat down upon his sled, and, after digging into his scant food supply, opened a can of frozen beans. These he shared with his dog. Having eaten, he took up his tireless march to Vladivostok.

These things had been happening to him while his former companion, Johnny Thompson, was threading his way through the ice floes to Vladivostok. While Johnny was completing his journey and making his trading trip to the wandering city of Mongols, Pant was hurrying southward. This passage was uneventful. It so happened that, the very day on which Johnny Thompson was about to re-enter this Russian city of many dangers and mysteries after his visit to the Mongols, Pant, coming from an opposite direction, was also entering.

It will not, I am sure, seem strange that Johnny at this very time found himself longing for this companion and his protection. And, of course, since Johnny was known to have gone to Vladivostok, it will not seem strange that Pant was wondering if he would be able to locate him there.

You will observe that the "clan is gathering." The little band for a time so widely and strangely separated are moving toward a common center, Vladivostok. Pant and Johnny are at the city gates. But Dave and Jarvis, far in the north, are only hoping. If they can get the balloon afloat and can manage the engine, Vladivostok is to be the air-port of their dreams.



CHAPTER XVI

THE CITY OF GOLD

The head lettuce, strawberries, and the cream which Dave Tower and Jarvis saw before them on the wooden tray in the cabin of the mysterious Russian were part of no dream, but a glorious reality. Their palates testified to that fact in prompt order.

"But where'd they come from?" inquired Dave, smacking his lips.

"Don't ask," grumbled Jarvis. "It's enough they're 'ere."

Dave did ask and he did receive a reply. They had hardly finished their meal, when the friendly stranger was at hand, ready to show them the village.

The cabins they had seen were ordinary affairs, built of driftwood. But as they rounded a corner of rock, they were confronted by a very different scene. Beyond them stretched the broad, low roof of what appeared to be a vast greenhouse. And indeed that was exactly what it was. That another such greenhouse did not exist anywhere in the world, they were soon to learn.

"The Golden City," murmured Jarvis.

"But the glass?" exclaimed Dave. "Where did you get it?"

"Not a square inch of glass in it," smiled their host. "Come inside."

Soon they breathed the peculiar, tropical dampness that fills every greenhouse. All about them were green things growing. To the right of them, prodigious potato plants thrived in beds of rich earth; to the left were beds of radishes, head lettuce and onions. Over their heads, suspended in cleverly woven baskets of leather, huge cucumbers swung aloft, their vines casting a greenish light over all. Far down the narrow aisle, numerous varieties of plants and small fruits were growing. Close beside them ran a wall of stone, which, strangely enough, gave off a mellow heat. Along the wall to the right ran a stone trough, and, in this, a murmuring stream of water went glittering by.

"Tell us the answer to this fable," whispered Dave. "We are all ears, oh Wise One!"

"There's not much story to tell," said the host. "A political exile in northern Russia, having been farmed out as a slave to a trader, was carried with his master, against their wishes, on the angry waters of the great Lena River to the shores of the Arctic Sea. They struggled along the seashore until they came to this place, and here, for a time, they tarried.

"The exile was learned in many sciences. He perceived at once the vast possibilities of this place as a hostage for escaped exiles. A warm spring, flowing winter and summer, sprang from the rocky hillside; a ten-foot vein of coal cropped out from that same hill. Limestone rock promised material for plaster; an extraordinary deposit of rock rich in mica promised windows. Put your hand on the window beside you."

"Mica," murmured Dave, as he took his hand away.

"Mica," repeated his host. "All our windows are double and made of mica."

"Well, after facing many dangers, this exile and his master made their way back to the land in which the Czar and his nobles have condemned many honest and good people to live as slaves because of their beliefs. He went back to dream and to tell of his dreams to his friends. At first these doubted, but one by one they too began to dream. From that they took to planning and preparing. All manner of seeds were gathered and hoarded. Clothing and food were saved. One night, twenty-eight of them disappeared. They have never returned; they are here. This is the work of their hands. We live, as you see, with all the material needs supplied. We have a reindeer herd which supplies us clothing, milk and meat. This greenhouse gives us the rest."

"You are Communists?" said Dave.

"We were Communists in theory, back in old Russia. Here we are Communists in practice."

"Why do you not go back to old Russia now?"

"What? Leave this for exile?" The man's face showed his astonishment.

It was Dave's turn to be surprised. Could it be that this man and his companions did not know that, for more than two years, the Communists had been in power over the greater part of old Russia?

"Don't you know," he said slowly, "that the Czar is dead, that his government has been overthrown, that the Communists hold sway in your land and all exiles have been called home?"

"What?" The man sank weakly to a seat, covering his face with his hands.

"Why!" exclaimed Dave in astonishment. "Why don't you leap and shout for joy? Your Communist theory has been put into practice."

"And Russia? She must be in ruins!" He groaned miserably.

"Not quite that bad," smiled Dave, "though God knows it has been bad enough."

"Communism!" exclaimed the man springing up. "Communism will never do. It drives men to dry-rot. Here we have had Communism at its very best, a group of friends, each doing the best for the whole group at all times, but we have not been happy. We have been of all men the most miserable. Each one of us would give a year of this for one week spent in honest competition for a livelihood with other men.

"Competition! Competition! I cannot tell how it is, but I know it to be a truth now; honest competition is not only the life of trade, it is the life of man and without it man will die of inactivity which comes when interest dies.

"But my country, my poor Russia, my brave Russia! She will yet see her error and build up a government like your own, a free government of the people, a government not without its faults, but ever striving toward perfection. She must do it!"

He sank back exhausted by this impassioned utterance. For some time he did not move nor speak. At last he roused himself.

"And now, my friend," he said, "you in your great balloon will take us somewhere, I am sure."

"If we can get our engine started," said Dave.

"We will help you."

At that moment Jarvis, who had wandered down the aisle, came storming back.

"'Oo's the two 'eathen that just went out the door?" he demanded.

"Just some natives that came here and wished to stay," smiled the Russian. "When they came, they had been pretty badly torn up by a polar bear. We nursed them back to life and they have been so grateful for it that they have never left."

"Good reason!" stormed Jarvis. "Gold! Gold! The City of Gold."

"We have a little gold here," smiled the Russian, "but precious little good it's ever been to us."

"Now mind y'. I'm a tellin' y'," stormed Jarvis, striking his fists together, "them's no natural 'eathen. Them's two spies from far down the coast. A polar bear me eye! An ice anchor it was that cut 'alf a ear off'n the little one. Them's the lads that Dave and me 'ad the tussle with on the submarine more'n a year ago. I tell you they're no natural 'eathen an' I 'ates to think what'll 'appen to 'em if I meets up with 'em again."

Dave sprang to the door through which the men had just passed. They were not to be seen. The incident was disturbing. There could be little doubt but that Jarvis had identified the men as the same pair that had locked them in a prison made of walrus tusks the year before, and had fought with them later on the submarine. Now if they had recognized Jarvis, what might they not do? He continued to think of this while the Russian showed them through the most wonderful greenhouse in all the world.

"You see," said their host, "we built this against the side of the cliff, at the point where the soft coal mine cropped out. We cut away enough of the coal to make room for a great stone furnace. From this furnace we ran heat tunnels of stone through the entire greenhouse. The work is all very simple. Coal is mined and loaded on trucks of wood, run on wooden tracks. From there it is shoveled into the furnace. We ran stone troughs through the greenhouse connecting them to the warm spring. This furnishes water for use in our homes, and for irrigating the rich soil we have brought from the tundra. At the same time, it keeps the air here sufficiently moist."