The Lost Continent | Page 3

I
looked carefully, and except for bats the place was entirely bare. I lit a
cigarette and smoked it through--Coppinger always thinks one is
slurring over work if it is got through too quickly--and then I went to
the entrance where the rope was, and leaned out, and shouted down my
news.
He turned up a very anxious face. "Have you searched it thoroughly?"
he bawled back.
"Of course I have. What do you think I've been doing all this time?"
"No, don't come down yet. Wait a minute. I say, old man, do wait a
minute. I'm making fast the kodak and the flashlight apparatus on the
end of the rope. Pull them up, and just make me half a dozen exposures,
there's a good fellow."
"Oh, all right," I said, and hauled the things up, and got them inside.
The photographs would be absolutely dull and uninteresting, but that
wouldn't matter to Coppinger. He rather preferred them that way. One
has to be careful about halation in photographing these dark interiors,
but there was a sort of ledge like a seat by the side of each doorway,
and so I lodged the camera on that to get a steady stand, and snapped
off the flashlight from behind and above.
I got pictures of four of the chambers this way, and then came to one
where the ledge was higher and wider. I put down the camera, wedged
it level with scraps of stone, and then sat down myself to recharge the
flashlight machine. But the moment my weight got on that ledge, there
was a sharp crackle, and down I went half a dozen inches.
Of course I was up again pretty sharply, and snapped up the kodak just
as it was going to slide off to the ground. I will confess, too, I was
feeling pleased. Here at any rate was a Guanche cupboard of sorts, and
as they had taken the trouble to hermetically seal it with cement, the
odds were that it had something inside worth hiding. At first there was

nothing to be seen but a lot of dust and rubble, so I lit a bit of candle
and cleared this away. Presently, however, I began to find that I was
shelling out something that was not cement. It chipped away, in regular
layers, and when I took it to the daylight I found that each layer was
made up of two parts. One side was shiny staff that looked like talc,
and on this was smeared a coating of dark toffee- coloured material,
that might have been wax. The toffee-coloured surface was worked
over with some kind of pattern.
Now I do not profess to any knowledge on these matters, and as a
consequence took what Coppinger had told me about Guanche habits
and acquirements as more or less true. For instance, he had repeatedly
impressed upon me that this old people could not write, and having this
in my memory, I did not guess that the patterns scribed through the wax
were letters in some obsolete character, which, if left to myself,
probably I should have done. But still at the same time I came to the
conclusion that the stuff was worth looting, and so set to work
quarrying it out with the heel of my boot and a pocket-knife.
The sheets were all more or less stuck together, and so I did not go in
for separating them farther. They fitted exactly to the cavity in which
they were stored, but by smashing down its front I was able to get at the
foot of them, and then I hacked away through the bottom layers with
the knife till I got the bulk out in one solid piece. It measured some
twenty inches by fifteen, by fifteen, but it was not so heavy as it looked,
and when I had taken the remaining photographs, I lowered it down to
Coppinger on the end of the rope.
There was nothing more to do in the caves then, so I went down myself
next. The lump of sheets was on the ground, and Coppinger was on all
fours beside it. He was pretty nearly mad with excitement.
"What is it?" I asked him.
"I don't know yet. But it is the most valuable find ever made in the
Canary Islands, and it's yours, you unappreciative beggar; at least what
there is left of it. Oh, man, man, you've smashed up the beginning, and
you've smashed up the end of some history that is probably priceless.

It's my own fault. I ought to have known better than set an untrained
man to do important exploring work."
"I should say it's your fault if anything's gone wrong. You said there
was no such thing as writing