Through the Air to the North Pole | Page 6

In a tall glass, such as druggists use for mixing
prescriptions, he put several liquids, and stirred the whole together.
Then he moistened a little cotton in the preparation, and placed the
white stuff under the noses of the lads, holding it in place with cloths.
He had about completed this when a knock was heard at the door.
"Who is there?" he cried, starting up in alarm.
"Mr. Washington Jackson Alexander White," was the answer.
"Give the countersign!" demanded the old man, sternly, making no
move to undo the bolts that held the door tight.
"De North Pole, an' long may it stand!" was the rather odd reply.

"Right! Enter!" said the professor, opening the door to give admittance
to the colored man.
"Did you find any more victims of the wreck?" asked the old man.
"No, sah; Mr. Perfessor Amos Henderson, I did not," answered
Washington.
"Just plain Professor will do," said Amos Henderson, quietly. "You
needn't give my full name every time."
"All right, Perfessor," went on the colored man. "I didn't find no mo'
pussons entangled in the distribution of debris. Dere was a lot ob
railroad men dere, but dey wasn't hurted. Dey was lookin' fer two boys
what was ridin' on de train when it went kersmash."
"I hope you didn't say anything about these lads, Washington."
"Not one single disjointed word, Perfessor. Dis chile knows when to
persecute de essence ob quietude an' silence."
"There you go again! How many times have I told you not to try and
use big words, Washington? Use simple language. I take it you mean
there were no others injured in the wreck?"
"Perzackly."
"It is a miracle how these boys escaped instant death," the old man
went on.
"I reckon as how it were owin' to de fack dat dey struck in a bank ob
soft sand dat concussioned de fall," explained Washington.
"You mean the soft sand saved them?"
"Dat's de correctness ob it."
"I think you are right," the old man continued, as he fastened the door
securely. "The shock of the sudden stopping of the runaway train, as it

reached the end of the siding and crashed into the bank, probably threw
the lads up in the air, and they came down in the sliding sand where we
found them. Otherwise they would surely have been killed. As it is they
have had severe shocks."
"Are dey goin' to die, Perfessor?"
"I hope not, Washington, but I must see to them."
Amos Henderson went over to the bed on which the two boys were
stretched out, each with the piece of cotton soaked in the preparation
over his mouth and nose.
"I am using a very powerful remedy," the old man muttered. "If they
are not too badly hurt they will recover. Ah, yes, there is a little color in
their pale cheeks."
He bent over the boys. As he had said, Jack's face was tinged with a
light pink, and Mark's eye-lids were moving slightly.
"They are coming around all right," exclaimed the aged professor.
"Hurry, Washington, and get some hot beef broth ready. Put the kettle
on to boil and make some strong tea. They will want something to eat
shortly after they recover their senses."
The colored man, humming softly to himself, began moving about the
shed. It was a rough looking place from the outside, but, within, was
fitted with many comforts. There was a gasoline stove, a table, several
chairs, a bed, and a large case full of books. But the queerest sights of
all were on the walls.
They were literally covered with cog wheels, levers, handles, springs,
pieces of machinery, patterns, models, and strange devices. The room
had two doors. One was that by which the old man and the negro had
entered. The other was behind the bed, and was clamped and fastened
with so many bolts and bars, with locks similar to those on big safes,
that it would seem a rare treasure was concealed behind the portal.

The old man gave no heed to the wonders that surrounded him. Instead
he gave all his attention to the boys. He sat down beside the bed and
watched them as their breathing became stronger. From time to time he
felt of their pulses, and nodded his head as if satisfied.
"Is the beef tea ready?" asked the old man, after a half hour had passed.
"It am, Perfessor."
"Then turn down the flame a bit so it will keep the stuff warm, and
come back into the work shop with me. I want to get that last bolt in the
engine."
"Are dem young gen'men all hunky-dory?"
"They are coming on nicely," was the old man's reply. "They will
recover consciousness in half an hour and we can