A Deteriorating Stand-Off (1979)

[Passage from my journal, written 4 December 1979 at 11:46 pm PST]

T

he things are crawling out from the walls of the nation now; the wood is rotten. This is not a good time for the United States, nor for my own country [Cascadia]. It is revolting when it is somehow treasonous to criticize the Shah of Iran, ex-Shah really and ex-Iranian, a bloody tyrant who—bluntly—deserved to lose his country. I am not going to change my beliefs just because his replacement is another of his ilk and further has showed his true colors by not only supporting the murderous PLO but also by holding hostages with his own already bloody hands. For my part I support this Iranian revolution—stupid though many of its manifestations be—as a return to the basics of the cultural fabric. But it has shown itself bankrupt in its fruits and in its leader. It has massacred Kurds and Arabs, slaughtered its political enemies, and directed violence against its women. Were it not for this last incident, Khomeini’s regime would have collapsed by now, or would be in the process of collapsing—if it hasn’t collapsed already.

The things are crawling out of the rotten wood. God help us when the Ku Klux Klan—which only recently massacred unarmed folk at a rally—is cheered for planning a counterdemonstration in favor of the Shah. God help us all when the PLO can appear as a savior, as a responsible organization—when still engaged in its illicit traffic in human lives. And God help us all when holy men call for war.

The logic of the situation inevitably is leading to war, because there is literally no way out for either party, short of intervention from heaven. Consider this—there is no way that the terrorists in Iran can back down now, without losing face and in any case it is clear that they are living in a very alternative universe. They may seriously believe that there is a chance of the US handing over the ex-Shah—although it is difficult for me to imagine how, given my mindset. More probably they realize that there is no chance of this happening (and have realized this from the start) but are caught up in the push of events. In either case they cannot moderate their demands now—how? Would they be satisfied with the handing over of a ransom from the ex-Shah (always assuming the ex-Shah is willing to pay such a forfeit)? I wouldn’t be, in their place. What then? A UN inquiry, rather than justice? When the UN is obviously dominated by the CIA? I may well be caricaturing their views, but I feel that has to be the direction they’re going, to judge from their rhetoric—a poor source, but what I’ve got. What compromise is possible?—the ex-Shah cannot be halfway handed over.

But they are trapped, nonetheless. They cannot get the Shah, and their only alternative is to sit forever in the embassy with the hostages. Really, they cannot proceed to the next step without great difficulty. Killing the hostages would likely provoke US reaction and (discounting the words involved) would be avoided. Even staging a mock trial I believe is more dangerous than they dare to go. They may of course go ahead with such shows, but they must realize what toboggan they are climbing on in that instance; they will escalate the shouting but must hold off on action.

Neither can the US act now. Again, there is no way that the US can give in on this point. But military action is basically impossible until the hostages are killed—at which point it becomes pointless. Economic actions on either side will have no real results. So—

So it’s a deteriorating stand-off. Deteriorating, because both sides must give the appearance of taking steps, and sooner or later one will have to cross the line. The US must move closer to military action, while the terrorists towards their trials. We both realize that the other is bluffing; but we also both know that our bluffs will sooner or later be called.

If any of the US folk are put on trial (perhaps with confessions extracted under torture) then the US will have to take action—either that or back down. If it invades Iran, then the interests of the Russian Empire are threatened inevitably (just as they were when the US had a military presence there). The US would certainly take a dim view of Russian maneuvers in say Mexico—and the reverse holds true. A US/Russian Empire conflict in Iran is not out of the question, although I do not think it would go further. I don’t think it would, but it is not a desirable thing to have happening.

I had intended to say a few things about the perceptions of the Iranian terrorists, who can see the CIA as being so powerful. It is sad to think of the kind of oppression that would produce this misconception—misconception outside of Iran, I mean, not necessarily inside. But I am tired, and the night is wearing on, and soon, when I turn out the lights, the things will again creep out of the woodwork. [4 Dc 1979]

I Hope I Never Come Down (1979)

[passage from my journal, written 10:37 p.m. PST on 21 October 1979]

I

’m behind in everything, facing a disastrous midterm to-morrow (no, Tuesday rather) and now have two papers upcoming in Christian Origins assuming I revise the first—a project I worked all day on. Oh well. To-morrow is another day and maybe I can get a little ahead. Maybe I should just write up my Christian Origins first paper as it stands (I feel fairly confident of what I’m doing there). And I have rent due again all too soon and I need money for food and books and such (though if I live on bread and water I think I can make it to December…)

Anyway, I’m not depressed, I can’t think why. I’m so fucking glad I’m not depressed—in fact, I’m in this nothing-can-bring-me-down phase, fundamentally out of touch with reality. It’s great; I hope I never come down. I’m a little afraid right now—I’ve got that grungy corrupted dirty feeling, that often precedes a crash, and I can’t afford a crash now, not at all. It’s been so good; I don’t want it to end.

Out of Touch [1979]

[A passage from my journal, 5 May 1979]

8:23 pm PST—I’ve spent all my time since yesterday working on my Simon of Cyrene book [a parody of The Jesus Scroll and the like] with indifferent results. The prose is frankly lousy. I would sure like to look at The Passover Plot et al though as I recall they were appallingly written and organized. At the moment I’m feeling rather dazed—I really hadn’t planned on getting so far into it this weekend—I really think this could be a commercial success if I handle it just right. Jesus was not crucified—but Simon. The later days of Jesus. His secret “gnostic” teaching. It’s going to be one hell of a book.

I suppose I am fundamentally out of touch with reality, down here in California.

Empty Bridge [1979]

[Dream, 13/14 April 1979]

I

 dreamed about Wyn. I didn’t recognize it in the dream, but I was back with the John Rogers School gang—Bruce, Wyn and others—and in the auditorium-gymnasium of the school but much larger, a professional theatre. We were screwing around backstage, and got kicked out, everything as it was then, except we were adults. Sixteen year old memories—I’ve been completely replaced twice since then, only the empty bridge of memories to connect us. Those were good days—I don’t remember the lows though I know they were there—I suffered from depression and hated school but sixteen years have leached all that away, eviscerating my memories to an artificial powdered happiness. Artificially sweetened, just add water and stir. And compared to the nightmares that have come since they were good days.

Last Day of Vacation [1979]

[Passage from my journal, 25 March 1979]

♇♇

—On this last day of vacation I am taking out a little time to write to my folks. Nothing worth mentioning is happening here—I spent the last few days at my aunt’s reading and so forth. I am thinking of enclosing a xerox of the long-lost Wasp chapter of Through the Looking Glass and telling them to put it somewhere safe—I hope they don’t lose it.

I got my story sent out to ASF. I wish the MS didn’t look so unprofessional, what with the machine and all, but what the fuck. Maybe it will change my luck a little. If my fairly decent manuscript was rejected repeatedly, maybe an awful one will make it. I revised it too, in a couple of places, for what that’s worth. It won’t make the difference between a sale and a rejection slip, but the product may as well be as close as possible to the best I can turn out.

10:18 pm PST—I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in years, the old Like-On-Sunday feeling of end of vacation, irreparable loss, loss of self, return of the hellish ordinary world. It’s over. I’ve been mildly down the last couple of days.

And I wish to God I had never come here to this appalling place, that I had never decided to go back to school, that none of this had ever happened. Why the hell didn’t I have the guts to pull that trigger a year ago? Why did I live to see 27, let alone 28? Yeah, smile you fucking bastard looking over my shoulder as I write this, you social worker, historian, psychologist, or future self, smile and be damned to you.

I guess I should count my blessings. At least I’m not depressed, not yet anyway.

The Motor Chums in Alaska: An Underhanded Scheme

[passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 16–17 March 1979]

“T

his won’t do,” muttered Tom. He spared no glance to the others as he went into a conference over strategy with Ersatz.

Ned was accosted by a teammate. “What do you think of Skyways Transport?” he was asked.

“Forget it,” was Ned’s response. “Motor Chums Industries has it sewed up tight.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” said the other. “My father says it looks an up and coming venture, and he knows where he can get a couple hundred shares.”

Ned looked impressed, then remarked, “Probably nothing to it. If there was a couple hundred shares around, Tom would already’ve grabbed ’em.”

The other laughed. “I bet my dad knows a few things Tom doesn’t,” he said. With that the bell sounded for the second round.

During this round the Badgers held their own. Bingo Wright got to fourth on a puffed foul, while Ned blatted a triple whinger into the backstop. Harry exhibited some fancy footwork in stealing two bases and gained four points for the team. Although penalized for a moving violation, the Dragons were also brilliant; Fred Hoffman in particular knocked off two of the Badgers with a sharply-kicked field goal. But the unquestioned “star” of the round was Tom, who not only managed two run-ins, but virtually kept the opposition from scoring during his chores in the pitcher’s booth.

“That glory-grabber,” sneered Clarence Ashton, “Even when he’s going to throw the game, he has to look good.”

“That young ruffian ought to be jailed for the rest of his life!” burst out a stranger.

Clarence turned to the newcomer. “You talkin’ about our school hero?” he asked.

“School hero? Reform school hero, maybe—I’m talking about Tom Wilshire!”

“Say,” grinned Clarence, “You’re not a bad fellow for a Jeffersonian—but I think they ought to hang him from the school flagpole.”

“What has the miscreant perpetrated against you?” asked the other curiously.

Clarence glanced around shiftily. “You won’t tell anyone?” he asked.

“Of course not,” said the young man.

“By holding my debts over my head,” hissed Clarence, “he forced me to sign an apology to a colored lad.”

The stranger let out a whistle. “Well, after that what he did to me doesn’t look so bad—he merely stole my car and kidnapped a young lady-friend of mine.”

“You want to get back at him?” demanded Clarence. “I got a scheme. After the game we can talk with a friend of mine about it.”

The situation did not look good for the Badgers. At the beginning of the third round they still lagged behind by a good many points, and Tom had been replaced in the pitcher’s booth by Larry, who though well-thought-of, possessed none of Tom’s “brilliance” in the rôle. But the Dragons too had their setbacks. Fred Hoffman, the star player, was removed from the game when his stick exploded, while another had to be benched for his conduct in a pile-up on the free-throw line. As a result the team was badly crippled and barely scored, while without Fred’s pitching the Badgers were able to rack up several points.

“Can Tom save the situation?” was Ned’s anxious question.

“We seem to have the situation well in hand,” Harry replied. “We’ve had buy orders from as far away as Denver.”

“Not Skyways Transport,” snapped Ned. “The game.”

“There’s no necessity for worry on that score,” Harry informed him. “Tom and Ersatz are putting together some invention to save us at the last moment, as usual.”

“It am done, Marse Harry, deed it am,” shouted Ersatz, running up to the chums. “We’s inbented a Dragon-blaster dis time.”

“We sure have,” agreed Tom, “Wait’ll you see it in action. We’ll show the Dragons what the Badgers are made of.”

And as Tom predicted, in the last round the Badgers really showed their stuff. One by one the Dragons fell away, unable to cope with Tom’s pitching pyrotechnics. Although it took Ersatz five minutes to put out the stadium, all agreed that Tom’s flaming arc-ball was worth the cost, and his shooting-star spectacular so dazzled the Dragons that they were worth little for the remainder of the game.

Although the Badgers were delighted with the outcome—several hundred percent return on investment—others were not.

“Ruined!” shrieked Clarence angrily. “The bastards ruined us!”

“What do you mean?” whined Ben Hangdog nervously. “Let’s talk in my office.”

“Say, do you have your own office now,” Clarence Ashton asked enviously. “I’ve been School Bully now for six months and haven’t got mine. Anyway, since when is the school toady entitled to an office?”

“I’ve been promoted,” snickered Ben, “Cancher read? I’m th’ school sneak, now.” And the brass plaque on the door read “Ben Hangdog, School Sneak.” “Who’s th’ dude wicher?”

“I’m Herbert Waverly the First,” the lad introduced himself, “Ashton here says you two have a scheme on.”

“We did have,” blustered Ashton, “Till we were wiped out by losin’ the bets in the game.”

“We were gonna blow up Tom’s workshop,” said Ben Hangdog, “An’ then beat him to th’ Gold City while he’s still buildin’ his airship.”

“The Gold City!” exclaimed Herbert. “How do you know about that?”

“I heard Tom talkin’ about it with his gang,” said Clarence.

“Th’ main thing is, we need an airship,” said Ben, “An’ we need ter steal Tom’s map.”

Herbert produced the parchment with a triumphant flourish. “Here’s the map!” he exclaimed, “I had it off a certain young lady the ruffians kidnapped. And I’ll pay for the airship. That’s a low underhanded plan you’ve got.”

Ben grinned from ear to ear. “Thanks,” he whined humbly.

“I know who we can get to build and run it,” blustered Clarence. “You know Orville Risley?”

“The famed aviator?”

“And long-time foe of the Motor Chums,” snickered Ben.

“He’d be glad to do those bastards a bad turn,” boasted Clarence moodily. He turned to Ben. “You got anything on them now?”

“Lemme look at my files.” The little sneak walked over to a booth literally stuffed with file drawers and removed one, labeled “Motor Chums—April 10-17, 1910.” “Here we are … let’s see … they’re using a front to build an airship—something called Skyways Transport.”

Waverly’s jaw dropped. Ashton groaned. “I own a couple hundred shares—” began the rich man’s son, while the bully said, “I been doing promotions for them.”

“Those tricky bastards,” whimpered Ben Hangdog.

The Motor Chums in Alaska: A Field Trip [1979]

[A passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 12–14 March 1979]

“Y

ou want me to sponsor a field trip to Alaska!” exclaimed Mr. Kemp incredulously.

Tom nodded as Harry spread out maps and contracts in a businesslike manner. Ned glanced nervously at the clock. “Tom,” he observed, “the game’s just about to start.”

Tom waved him off. “We feel,” he said firmly, “it would be an educational experience in several dimensions, allowing the students of Horatio Alger High to optimize their latent capabilities in a novel environment. It will enhance decision-making skills, ability to verbalize needs in stress-situations, and provide conflict-resolution for certain key students here.”

“Our plan,” added Harry, “is to follow a westward route over the Great Lakes, which will allow us to look over such sites of interest as Detroit and Kalamazoo. Then reaching the b order of the Federated Northern States, we will pass into Dakotah territory and perhaps examine a tribe of Wild Indians.”

With that an interruption was felt as an apparition with a water bucket broke in. “Marse Tom! Ise done closed de bettin’ windows.”

“Good,” said Tom briefly.

“The game!” exclaimed Ned. “Tom, we have to get out there.”

“Our route will touch on several scenic spots,” Harry continued, “passing over Yellowstone Park and Snake Eyes or Dry Gulch Canyon in Wauregan.”

“A pause for refueling in Seattle—a brief glimpse of the frontier backwoodsmen and raw lumberjackery—and then it’s off for the Sootka Valley in the heart of unexplored Alaska,” finished Tom with a flourish.

“I’m not going,” said Mr. Kemp with finality. “It is a trip entirely without value, and dangerous besides. I cannot justify spending class time on such a project.”

“But it’s the chance of a lifetime!” protested Ned.

“A chance to end our lives miserably in the Alaskan ice floes,” said Mr. Kemp. “Do you lads have any idea what travel by dogsled is like?”

“We’ll be going by airship,” said Harry.

“That’s worse than ever,” said Mr. Kemp, throwing up his hands, “If we don’t crash into a mountain or blow up, we’ll have an engine failure in the wilderness.”

“All us Motor Chums are skilled aviators,” said Tom, “There is no danger of anything of that sort happening.” He pulled a magazine from his pocket. “This is yours, isn’t it, sir?”

“The Audifax Society Bulletin,” read Mr. Kemp. “I haven’t seen a copy of that for years.”

“I believe you were fired from Harvard for an article in this issue,” said Harry. “‘Corporate Rape of our Natural Surroundings.’”

“I’ve marked a couple of passages here,” said Tom. He read, “‘Little good can come from emissions of toxic gasses into the air from smokestacks across the nation.’”

“Here’s another,” said Ned, “‘Wanton interference with the natural order, especially on foreign shores where these matters are little understood, can only create catastrophes and perhaps sow for the FS a harvest of hate.’ As if we weren’t bringing the blessing of civilization to places like Africa and Europe!”

“And, ‘If F.S. Steel has its way there will be no wood in 1950,’” read Harry.

“I won’t be blackmailed,” said Mr. Kemp. “I’m sure you could stir things up royally, but I will not give in. I will not sponsor a field-trip to Alaska.”

“Sir, you leave us no choice,” said Harry, “We had intended to keep it secret, but now we must reveal the real purpose of our trip. We have good reason to believe that a hitherto unknown civilized race may inhabit the fastnesses of the Sootka Valley.” Briefly he described the evidence, suppressing only all mention of the Gold City.

“Can’t you fit this trip into your scientific expeditions, sir?” Tom demanded politely. “Last year you looked in on the Melanesian Ngrillas. The year before you studied the Philippine Tasmanians. Surely this year you could chart the Eskimos or something.”

Mr. Kemp sighed. “All my life,” he said, “I’ve been searching for utopia. I suppose I may as well search in Alaska as anywhere else.”

“Then you’ll sponsor the trip?”

“I will,” said Mr. Kemp. “But no good will come of it,” he added ominously.

The lads were too excited to take notice of this, however. With a happy “hooray!” Ersatz threw his water bucket high into the air, distributing the contents about the room. Ned turned a cartwheel while Tom strode briskly through the door. Harry paused just long enough to gather his papers, and then joined the other lads in following their collective leader.

As they reached the locker room Bingo Wright and Larry Lawton shoved the helmets on their heads and gave them their gloves. “Come on!” Larry said, “They’re waiting for you.”

The team took the field in high spirits, for by Tom’s capable management, they expected to turn a good profit. Perhaps the spirits of Tom and his friends were higher than most, for Motor Chums Industries owned a good percentage of Badger’s, Inc., but all stood to gain. A deafening cheer rang out when Tom took the pitcher’s box, for he was known and liked for miles around, and the Badgers therefore offered a small discount in ticket price to those who agreed to provide this moral support.

The first round went against our heroes. Although Tom’s work was as good as ever, Bingo dropped a hop fly on the twenty-fifth and even Dick missed an easy liner to the goal. The sole run was scored by Dick, and neither Tom nor Harry even came to bat. The score stood 14-3½.

The Motor Chums in Alaska: An Uninvited Eavesdropper [1979]

[Passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, written 22 February 1979. Having borrowed a touring-car from the local rich kid, the lads discuss their plans to seek out the Gold City of the Incas. But it turns out that they are not alone; an unknown girl has overheard their scheme.]

“What’s that sound?” demanded short Ned Eliot.

“The fuse-valve,” explained Tom. “It’s about to explode!” With all the skill and knowledge at his disposal he fought for control of the Hartrod, attempting to avert disaster.

“I suggest you stop the car,” came from Harry.

“Yeah,” agreed Dick Trefoil.

“You’ll have to jump,” replied Tom. “I don’t dare put on the brakes—it will heat up the carbonizer to the boiling point!”

Tom had no sooner spoken these words than the others had removed their persons from the car and distributed themselves in various attitudes along the dusty road, Dick, with characteristic gallantry dragging the strange girl along with him. Giving a powerful twist to the wheel, Tom leaped nimbly from the seat just as the car overturned into the ditch, at once catching fire.

“Shit,” said Dick, as the lads rose to their feet, and the others let this comment stand for their own.

“Herbert won’t thank you for what you did to his car, I’m sure,” the unknown young lady said. “You’re in trouble now,”

“Waverly ought to be thankful I don’t turn him in,” Tom retorted, “Assuming I don’t. I should—that car wasn’t safe to be run on the road. It could have blown up at any time!”

The girl laughed scornfully. “Nonsense. While you’re all in jail for wrecking Herbert’s car, we’ll be taking a trip to the gold city, see if we don’t.”

“Not without the map,” said Ned.

“Who needs a map?” said the girl, “I know it’s in the Sootka Valley—with an airship finding it will be a cinch—how can a city stay hidden?”

“Well, I like that!” burst out Ned.

“You’d think a fellow could plot with his friends without having eavesdroppers,” said Tom coldly. “If you weren’t a girl I could think of a word to describe such cowardly behavior.”

“What were you doing hiding in the rumble-seat anyway?” demanded Ned.

“When your colored lad attacked poor Herbert I thought it safer to hide,” she said. “There is no telling what he might have done in his berserk rage.”

“Herbert?” asked Tom incredulously.

“She means Ersatz,” Harry explained. “This is Clara Langword, who has often been observed in company with Waverly.”

“I don’t believe I know who you are?” Clara retorted angrily.

The chums laughed at this. “You don’t know who the famous Motor Chums are?” asked Ned. “That takes the cake, frosting and all, as the baker said about the delivery van.”

“You—the famous Motor Chums?” said Clara. “I don’t believe it. I’ve read the books, you know.”

“It’s true, though,” said Tom.

“The question is,” said Harry, “what are we going to do with her now? We can’t let her go, to sell out our secret to the highest bidder. I suggest we leave her in the clubhouse prison for two or three weeks. Once we’re on our way we can let her loose.”

“What, and reveal our clubhouse location to some one who isn’t one of us?” asked Tom. “No thanks.”

“Let’s beat her up,” suggested the practical Dick.

“I think Harry’s right,” said Ned. “Herbert’s rich and we need money for our trip. Why don’t we hold her for ransom at the same time? Of course we’ll pay Herbert back after we find the gold city,” he added hastily.

“My thought is,” said Tom, “that we take her money and jewelry and abandon her somewhere a ways off—say Mexico—so it will take her awhile to get back.”

“If we do that, why not simply abandon her in Riverside at night,” said Harry. “It will have much the same effect, be less trouble for us, and likely be more permanent. You know the criminal element have no love for Waverly in any case.”

Pickled Wilderness

[A passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 18 January 1979]

T

he intrepid party now found itself in a wild and desolate region of mountainous aspect. Huge volcanoes flared intermittently in the distance, seemingly in answer to the spouts of water beneath the chums—the famous geysers of the Yellowstone country. So savage was the country that one could easily imagine that hordes of untamed Indians still roamed the land as in ages past. Not a sign of civilization was visible. Only the picnic benches, lights, marked trails and the gigantic Ferris wheel gave mute evidence that the hand of man had ever touched the region.

“This is Yellowstone National Park,” Harry observed unnecessarily, as usual acting as a guide for the expedition. “Founded in 1872 it is the oldest of all National Parks, and contains nearly 3000 acres of scenic beauty, wildlife, and geysers. Attempts to exterminate all dangerous animals from the park have yet to prove successful, but with the rapid removal of many of their natural defenses, such as the trees, and the building of many new roads, it will not be long before the result is assured. Soon the park will be made so secure that even children and the elderly will be able to enjoy the thrill of being in a real wilderness in perfect safety.”

Phil laughed. “A playground for the elite,” he said. “How many of the factory workers in Trenton or Montreal are ever going to visit this park?”

“If they worked their way to the top they would,” Ned pointed out.

“It does seem like a waste of good farmland,” said Laura, “Although of course it is rather pretty.”

They were interrupted by the sound of hissing air from above them and a howl of anguish from the control cabin. At once Harry moved to the front of the ship, arriving in time to see the control rods detach themselves from the free-spinning flywheels and fly through the canvas gasbag above. With that the ship began to settle rapidly.

Not one whit alarmed, Tom shut off the fuel-valves “to prevent an explosion” and short-circuited the alarm system “so as not to frighten the passengers.”

“What happened?” Harry inquired.

“How in the blue blazes am I supposed to know that?” demanded Tom. “I’m not a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well, the emergency parachute system appears to have activated itself correctly on this occasion,” Harry said. “We should land safely.”

“If we aren’t smashed on the rocks and don’t land in the river,” put in Mr. Kemp, “or get blown up by a geyser.”

“Don’t let the passengers hear you talk,” Harry cautioned him, “They’re nervous enough as it is.”

Tom strode out and gave a brief explanation to the others. “We’ve decided to camp out to-night at the park, so as to make a few minor adjustments to the engine. We will be landing in a moment.”

This prophecy proved correct, as the ship abruptly came to a halt and then tilted to an angle, throwing the passengers against the walls.

“We landed in the river,” shouted Mr. Kemp. “I predicted this would happen!”

“Well, let’s go out and take a look at the park before sunset,” suggested Tom, “while I check the Rainbow II for damage.” This was done, and soon the young people were enjoying themselves in Father Sam’s own playground.

Tom and Harry, with the assistance of Ersatz, examined the ship carefully. Harry looked over the engine while Tom supervised Ersatz in inspecting the gasbag. Suddenly Ersatz raised a shout. “Dis am bery strange,” he exclaimed. “De bag am full ob little holes! Dere mus’ be t’ousands ob dem in dis ol’ canvas!”

“Can you see anything else?” Tom called.

“Birdshit!” the colored lad replied.

“And, by the way, Tom,” Harry interrupted, “the whole engine mechanism seems to be fouled.”

“With what?” Tom demanded.

“With feathers, and what appears to be some kind of excrement,” Harry told him. “I can’t be certain, of course, but I would say that it originated with birds.”

“Marse Tom,” said Ersatz, landing with a thump beside his chums, “Ah t’ink de birds am got it in fo’ us.”

“It’s one of the tests the legend spoke of,” said Mr. Kemp. “I knew better than to come along with you lads, but I did, and now we must all be punished. ‘To enter the gold city one must be pure of heart—one must be tested and found worthy, by ice, by capture, by wild beast.’ By wild beast.” He paused. “There are still beasts wild enough in Yellowstone Park, God knows.”

As if in conformation to these words a growl emanated from the ship. “Help, help, alretty!” came a cry. “A lion loose on de ship iss!”

“Lions are not indigenous to North America,” Harry nitpicked.

“Maybe he means a puma,” Tom suggested. “Where are the guns?”

“In the control cabin stores,” Harry replied. Further conversation was prevented by the sudden apparition of Franz Joseph fairly flying over the railing and landing in a heap about twenty feet away from the chums.

“A lion hass the control room overtaken! He iss pigger dan pig—de granfadder of all lions alretty!” he babbled breathlessly.

“Maybe we can entice him out with some meat,” suggested Tom. “It doesn’t seem sportsmanlike but without our guns we don’t really have that much of a choice.” 

“We have no meat, either,” said Harry. “We may be reduced to hoping he will leave the ship of his own accord.”