Professor Featherwit gave a low, eager cry as he handled the various articles, both face and manner betraying intense delight, which found partial vent in words a little later. “Wonderful! Marvellous! Superb! I envy you, sir; I can't help but envy your possession of so magnificent--and so well-preserved, too! That is the marvel of marvels!” “Well, to be sure, I haven't used them very much. The bow and arrows I could manage fairly well, after busy practice. They have saved me from more than one hungry night. But as for the rest--” “You might have worn the--Is it a ghost-dance shirt, though?” hesitatingly asked Waldo, gingerly fingering the wadded tunic. “Waldo, I'm ashamed of you, boy!” almost harshly reproved the professor. “Ghost-dance shirt, indeed! And this one of the most complete--the only perfectly preserved specimen of the ancient Aztec--pray, my good friend, where did you discover them? Surely there can be no burial mounds so far above the latitude where that unfortunate race lived and died?” Mr. Edgecombe shook his head, with a puzzled look, then made reply: “No, sir. I took these all from an Indian I was forced to kill in order to save my own life. I never thought--You are ill, sir?” “Bless my soul!” ejaculated the professor, falling back a pace or two, then sitting down with greater force than grace, all the while gazing upon those weapons like one in a daze. “Found them--Indian--killed him in order to--bless my soul!” Then, with marvellous activity for one of his age, the professor recovered his footing, mumbling something about tripping a heel, then resumed his examination of the curiosities as though he had care for naught beside. Cooper Edgecombe turned away, and the professor improved the opportunity by muttering to the brothers: “Careful, lads. Give the poor fellow his own way in all things, for he is--he surely must be--eh?” Forefinger covertly tapped forehead, for there was no time granted for further explanations. Edgecombe turned again, speaking in hard, even strained tones: “Fifteen years ago this month, on the 27th, to be exact, a balloon with two passengers was carried away on a terrific gale of wind which blew from the southeast. This happened in Washington Territory. Can you tell me--has anything ever been heard of either balloon or its inmates?” Professor Featherwit shook his head in negation before saying: “Not to my knowledge, though doubtless the prints of the day--” Cooper Edgecombe shook both head and hand with strange impatience. “No, no. I know they were never heard from up to ten years ago, but since then--I am a fool to even dream of such a thing, and yet,--only for that faint hope I would have gone mad long ago!” Indeed, he looked little less than insane as it was. CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF A BROKEN LIFE. This was the idea that occurred to both uncle and nephews, but they had seen and heard enough to excuse all that, and Professor Featherwit spoke again, in mildly curious tones: