“He is dead!” Johnny Thompson felt the grip of the speaker’s hand on his arm and started involuntarily. How could this strange fellow know that Frank Langlois was dead—if he was dead? And was he? They were surrounded by inky blackness. It was the thick darkness of a subterranean cavern, a mine. This was a gold mine. Three minutes ago their electric torch had flickered out and they had been unable to make it flash again. “C’mon,” said the other man, “Pant,” as the laborers called him, “we don’t n

The two men who, with the young doctor, accompanied Johnny and Pant back to the mine were old friends of other days, David Tower and Jarvis, one-time skipper and engineer of the submarine in that remarkable race beneath the ice and through the air told about in our second book, “Lost in the Air.” Like all worthy seamen, they had found that money “burned holes in their pockets,” and before six months had passed their share of the prize money had dwindled to such a meager sum that the fitting out

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, Yo—ho—ho, and a bottle of rum. Fifteen men and the dark and damp, My men ’tis better to shun.” For the fiftieth time Johnny heard those words ground out by the record that had rolled down the hill to meet him. Fifty times he had searched in vain for its meaning. For that it was not chance that had sent it rolling to his feet, but purpose, the mysterious purpose of an unknown some one, he was certain. If the man had something to say to him, why did he not say

The proposed hunt for “big yellow cats and little yellow men” did not come off, at least not at the time appointed. Morning found the tundra, the hills, everything, blotted out by a blinding, whirling blizzard. It was such a storm as one experiences only in the Arctic. The snow, fine and hard as granulated sugar, was piled high against the cabin. The door was blocked. Exit could be had only through a window. Dave Tower, in attempting to make his way to the storeroom to secure a fresh supply of c

Hardly had Johnny and Pant disappeared over the hill that morning in their quest for the supposed old ivory of rare value, when things began to happen in the neighborhood of the camp. Dave Tower and Jarvis had been detailed to inspect Mine No. 3, with a view to opening it as soon as the mother-lode had been reached in No. 2. Armed with pick and shovel, they had crossed the first low ridge, which made a short cut across the bend of the river, when Jarvis suddenly whispered: “Hist! Down! The cat!”

“Oh, there’s honey in the rock, my brother, There’s honey in the rock for you.” Johnny was listening to the second phonographic record. In high-pitched falsetto note the singer had repeated these words over and over. That was all. If the other message had seemed void of meaning, this one appeared doubly so, for here there were no improvised lines, only these two taken from a threadbare religious song. What could it mean? Johnny did not puzzle over this long. There were too many other important m

When Johnny Thompson saw that the wolf-hounds were on his trail, though he was without weapons of any kind and practically destitute of clothing, he decided to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the Russians, then to turn upon the pack and sell his life dearly, if indeed it must be sold to a murderous pack of half wolves. As he sped forward, through his mind there ran all manner of stories told round northern camp fires. The stories had to do with these same Russian wolf-hou

It was the dirigible balloon that Johnny Thompson saw as he rounded the point of the hill in his wild flight from the Bolshevik band. With his dogs grouped about him, he stood and gazed at it in speechless astonishment. Where had it come from? What was its mission? Whither was it going? These and many other questions sped through his mind as the balloon rose lazily in air. Scarcely a moment had passed when a sound arrested his attention. It was the thunder of a powerful gasoline engine. He guess

In the harbor at Vladivostok a thirty-ton gasoline schooner threaded its way through narrow channels left by ocean liners and gunboats toward a deserted water-front where half-dismantled warships of ancient Russian design lay rotting in the sun. Straight to a rickety wharf they made their way. 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 t

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

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

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

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

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

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, bo

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 sh

On entering the city, after leaving his cattle in safe keeping at the farmyard, Johnny Thompson went directly to Red Cross headquarters to inquire for Mazie. “Mazie!” exclaimed the matron in amazement, “we thought she went with you. We have not seen her since you left.” Johnny sank weakly into a chair. His head whirled. Mazie gone for five days! What must be her fate? In this city of opposing factions, with its dens of radicals, thieves and murderers, and, above all, the gang of “yellow men” fro

By the time Johnny had left the den of Wo Cheng, night had come down upon the city. It was by the light of a golden moon that he saw the balloon hanging in the sky. The balloon, however, interested him little. He was thinking only of Mazie. He had decided to make his way to a corner of the city occupied by Japanese people of doubtful character. To do this he must leave the street he was in and, after turning to his right, go straight ahead for ten blocks. He was not long in discovering that the

The first precaution taken by Johnny and Pant, after leaving the shed in the back garden, was to hasten to the water-front where their friends, the rough and ready mining gang, were still living in a cabin near the gasoline schooner. Selecting eight of these, Johnny detailed them to work in two shifts of four each, to lurk about the building where Mazie was being confined. They were instructed to guard every exit to the place, and, if an attempt was made by the kidnappers to change base, to put

The days that followed were busy ones for Johnny Thompson and Mazie. The tumult in the city had died away. There was a chance for work. Feed must be bought for the cattle from Mongolia; the hotel was to be rented. Through the good services of the Red Cross, the most needy of the refugees were to be assembled, and, when the ship from China arrived, the work of unloading was to be directed. Several busy days had passed before Johnny had time to think of looking up his gang. At this moment he was s