Chapter Two
A Failure

Dinner was over at Captain Norton’s. Mrs Norton had left the dining-room, after begging her son and his visitor not to go out in the broiling heat. The boy had promised that he would not, and after he had sat listening to Colonel Campion’s – a keen grey-haired man, thin, wiry in the extreme, and giving promise of being extremely active – talk to his father about the preparations for his trip up into the mountains, Cyril gave Perry a kick under the table, and rose.

Taking the sharp jar upon his shin to mean telegraphy and the sign, “Come on,” Perry rose as well, and the two boys, forgetful of all advice, went and sat in the dry garden, where every shrub and plant seemed to be crying out for water, and looked as if it were being prepared for a hortus siccus beloved of botanists, and where the sun came down almost hot enough to fry.

Here the boys had a long discussion about the promise Perry had made in the boat; after which they waited for an opportunity.

Meanwhile, as the two gentlemen sat chatting over their cigarettes, Captain Norton, a frank, genial, soldierly-looking man, said:

“So you mean to take all the risks?”

“Risks!” said the colonel, turning his keen eyes upon the speaker, as he let the smoke from his cigarette curl up toward the ceiling. “You an old soldier, and ask that?”

“Yes,” said Captain Norton. “I have been here a long time now, and know something of the country.”

“Are the risks so very great, then?”

“To an ordinary traveller – no: to a man going with some special object or search – yes.”

“I did nut say that I was going on a special search,” said Colonel Campion quickly.

“No, but everything points to it; and as you came to me with letters of introduction from an old friend and brother-officer, I receive you as my friend, and treat you as I would a brother.”

“And as the man whom you treat as a brother, I am very reticent, eh?”

“Very,” said Cyril Norton’s father; “and if I try to know why you are going upon so perilous a journey, it is not from curiosity, but because I am eager to save you from running into danger.”

Colonel Campion held out his hand, which was taken, and the two men sat for a few moments gazing in each other’s eyes.

“If I spoke out, Norton, you would immediately do everything you could to prevent me from going, instead of helping me; so I am silent, for I have made up my mind to go, and no persuasion would stop me.”

“Then you are going on an insane quest of the treasures of gold said to have been buried by the Incas’ followers to preserve them from the Spaniards.”

“Am I?” said the colonel quietly.

“I take it for granted that you are; so now, listen. It will be a very dangerous search. That the gold exists, I do not doubt; and I feel pretty sure that the Indians have had it handed down from father to son. Where this gold is hidden in the mountains is a sacred trust, which they in their superstitious natures dare not betray. It means death to any one who discovers one of these hoards.”

“If found out,” said the colonel, smoking, with his eyes half shut.

“He would certainly be found out,” said the captain, “and if you persist in going, you must run the risk; but I beg of you not to take that boy Perry with you, to expose him to these dangers.”

“What am I to do with him, then?”

“Leave him with us. He will be happy enough with my boy Cyril; and my wife and I will take every care of him.”

“Thank you, Norton,” cried the colonel warmly; “I am most grateful. But you are wrong: he would not be happy if he stayed here and I went alone; I believe he would prefer running all risks with me. How odd!” added the colonel, smiling; “here he is, to speak for himself.”

For at that moment the door was softly opened, and Perry stood there, looking startled.

“Come in, boy, come in,” cried the colonel.

“I – I beg; our pardon; I thought Captain Norton had gone.”

“No, and we were just talking about you.”

“About me, father?”

“Yes; Captain Norton thinks it would be too risky and arduous a journey for you up into the mountains, and he says you are to stay here and make yourself happy with Cyril till I come back.”

The lad looked delighted.

“Oh father!” he cried. Then, quick as thought, his manner changed.

“It is very good of Captain Norton,” he said gravely, “but I could not stop here and let you go alone.”

“Don’t be hasty, Perry, lad,” said the captain kindly. “There, I’m going down to the wharf; you and your father chat it over, and we’ll talk about it when I return.”

He left the room, passing out through the veranda.

“Well,” said the colonel, looking away at the window, “I think he’s right, and you had better stay, Perry.”

“I don’t think you do, father,” replied the boy. “Besides, you promised to take me.”

“Um! Yes, I did, my lad; but circumstances have altered since then. They say it’s dangerous up there among the Indians.”

“Then you had better not go, father,” said Perry quickly.

“I have undertaken to go, and I am going,” said the colonel firmly. “I gave my word.”

“And you can’t break it, father?”

“No, my boy, not honourably.”

Perry laughed softly.

“Hullo! What does that mean, sir?” cried the colonel. “Glad I am going into danger?”

“Of course not, father,” said Perry. “I was only laughing because you promised to take me, and you can’t break your word.”

The colonel leaned back and laughed.

“And I’ve come with a petition, father,” said Perry.

“Petition?”

“Yes; you said that it would be nice for me to be with Cyril Norton.”

“Yes, I rather like the lad. He’s a rackety, wild young dog, but there’s a good deal of the gentleman about him. But what do you mean! You said you did not want to stay here.”

“Yes, father, but he wants to stay with us.”

“Stay with us? We’re not going to stay here.”

“I mean, go with us. He is wild to go. Take him with us, father. I should like it so much.”

“Why, Perry, my boy, you’re mad,” said the colonel. “If the journey is so risky that Captain Norton wishes me to leave you here, do you think it likely that he will let his son go?”

“Perhaps he would with you, father. He trusts you.”

“Not to that extent.”

“Try him, father. It would be so nice to have Cil with us.”

“Nice for you, sir – double responsibility for me.”

“You wouldn’t mind that, father, and we would help you so.”

“Yes, nice lot of help I should get from you.”

“You don’t know, father; but, I say, you will ask him?”

“Ask him yourself, sir,” said the colonel firmly; “here he is.”

For at that moment steps were heard in the veranda, and Captain Norton appeared.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” he said; “I came back for some bills of lading. – Well, Perry, you’re going to stop and keep Cil company, eh? I’ll have the big boat out and newly rigged for you boys. You can fish, and sail, and – ”

“But I’m not going to stay, sir,” said Perry quietly.

“Not going to stay! I’m very sorry. But you must think better of it. Sleep on it, my lad. That journey in the mountains will be too arduous for a lad like you.”

“Oh no, sir. I’m light and strong, and – ”

“Yes? And what? You are afraid of outstaying your welcome? Nonsense, boy; you’ll be conferring a favour upon us. I shall be glad for Cil to have your company. He likes you.”

Perry exchanged glances with his father, who nodded, and his eyes seemed to say, “Now’s your time.”

“Yes, sir, and I like Cil. We get on together, and – and he wants to go with us!”

Perry uttered the last words hurriedly, and then wished that he had not said them, for the captain looked at him quite fiercely.

“What!” he exclaimed.

“Cil said he would give anything to go with us, sir, and I promised to ask my father if he would take him.”

“Well,” said Captain Norton sternly, “and have you asked him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does he say?”

“He says no,” said the colonel firmly. “There is no doubt, I suppose, that I am going to run some risks, and I begin to feel now that I am hardly warranted in exposing my own son to these dangers. I should certainly not be right in exposing the son of a friend to them, even if that friend consented, which he would not. Am I right, Norton?”

“Quite right,” said the gentleman addressed.

“Then we need say no more about it,” cried the colonel. “Pray, my boy, help us by dissuading your new friend from thinking about so mad a project. We must not make Captain and Mrs Norton regret their kindness to us.”

“No, father. I understand,” said Perry.

“Then there is an end of the matter,” said the colonel.

“Not quite,” said their host, smiling, “I am still hoping that you will stay with us, Perry.”

“No, sir,” said the boy, very firmly now, “I am going with my father. I wish, though, you would let Cil come too.”

“Impossible, my lad,” said the captain.

“Then now let’s change the subject,” said the colonel. “I do not start yet for a week, and plenty of things may occur to alter all our opinions and determinations.”

“They will not alter mine,” said the captain firmly. “If you both alter yours, I shall be very glad. There, I must go now.”

Captain Norton gave Perry a friendly nod, and left them once more.

“There, Perry, you hear?”

“Yes, father, but he may alter his mind.”

“Don’t expect it, my lad; Captain Norton is firm as a rock in all he decides upon.”

“So is Cyril, father.”

“Not quite,” said the colonel, smiling; “the stuff is soft yet, and will have to yield. There, go and tell him you have failed.”

“Yes, father,” said Perry sadly.

“And you mean to go with me?”

“Of course, father.”

“Very well,” said the colonel, and Perry left the room.

Chapter Three
Preparing to Start

“Well, did you ask him?” cried Cyril eagerly, as Perry went out into the parched garden, the boy pouncing out upon him from behind a patch of dry-looking shrubs.

“Yes, I asked him, and then your father came in.”

“Yes,” said Cyril eagerly, “I saw him, and kept in hiding, because I thought it best to leave it for you to do. Well, what did your father say?”

“He as good as said no.”

“Yes, at first,” cried Cyril. “I knew he would. But he came round.”

“And then your father came in.”

“Yes?”

“And my father made me ask him what he had to say about it.”

“Yes? Do go on, old chap. You are so slow.”

“The captain was quite angry, and wouldn’t listen to the idea for a moment.”

“That was because he had made his plans for you to stay with me. But he came round, didn’t he?”

“No,” said Perry sadly. “He was firm as a rock, and they are both dead against it. I should have liked for you to come, Cil.”

There was a dead silence; and as Perry looked at his companion, he saw that his brow was full of deep lines, and that the boy’s face looked hard and set, the eyes fixed, and the lips tightened together into quite a hard crease.

Perry looked at him for a few moments, feeling pained to see the way in which the lad took his disappointment.

“I’m so sorry, Cil,” he said at last.

Cyril did not seem to have heard him, and after a pause Perry spoke again.

“Perhaps your father will give way before we go.”

“What?”

Perry started, the word sounded so sharp and harsh.

“I say perhaps he’ll give way before we go.”

“No, he won’t. He never does. Father says a thing, and means it.”

“It’s very disappointing,” said Perry, “but it’s of no use to fret.”

Cyril laughed bitterly.

“You’re going,” he said sharply. “It can’t disappoint you.”

“Yes, it can. I am disappointed. I don’t care about going so much now without you.”

“Then stop here with me,” cried Cyril sharply.

“I can’t,” was the reply. “You wouldn’t give up going if you were me. Don’t let’s think any more about it now, but go and do something.”

Cyril made no reply, but walked straight away out of the garden and then down towards the harbour, while Perry watched him for a few minutes sadly, and then followed slowly, missed sight of him, and after quite a long search found him sitting on the edge of his wharf, where the sun beat down most fiercely, and staring straight out to sea. “Cil!” said Perry, after going close up, but without exciting the slightest notice of his presence.

There was no reply.

“Cil – don’t be sulky with me.”

“Not sulky,” came with quite a snap.

“Well, angry then. It isn’t my fault. I wish you could come.”

“Didn’t say it was your fault.”

“Then why do you take it like that?”

Cyril turned upon him quite fiercely.

“What’s the good of talking?” he cried. “You can’t understand. You go sailing about with your father and seeing things everywhere. I never go even into the forest. It’s horrible always shut up here with book-keeping and classics. I wish sometimes I was only one of the Indians, like that one yonder.”

Perry felt disposed to say, which one? for there was a second Indian close by; but wishing to brighten his companion, and turn the current of his thoughts, he merely said:

“Well, I shouldn’t wish to be a she Indian.”

“Those are not shes – they’re both men,” said Cyril sharply.