  “What do you suppose is delaying Mr. Livingston? He should have been here half an hour ago.” Uneasily, Jack Hartwell glanced at his wristwatch and then toward the entranceway of the Savoy Hotel terrace dining room. There was no sign of the Scout leader. George (Happy) Livingston, advisor to Explorer Post 21, had invited the four Scouts to meet him promptly at 7:30 p.m. for dinner at the hotel. Now it was pushing eight o’clock, and he’d neither shown up nor sent word. Three times a waiter had pointedly asked the Scouts if they cared to order. It was getting harder to stall. “Maybe Mr. Livingston forgot he invited us.” This remark came from Willie Medaugh, a tow-headed fifteen-year-old with broad, powerful shoulders. He was assistant crew leader, and wore the green Explorers’ uniform. The others, Jack of the twinkling blue eyes, serious Ken Dougherty and Warwick Washburn, were fellow members of the Rover Crew, Post 21. “War,” a lean, freckled youngster with great enthusiasm and a peppery temper, was the newest recruit, a willing if untried member of the tough, efficient little band. “Mr. Livingston never would have forgotten his appointment with us,” Ken Dougherty said in answer to Willie’s remark. “Not Hap!” “No, you can bet something important held him up,” agreed Jack. “He’ll be along, or send word.” Quiet-spoken, the crew leader had an easy, assured manner which inspired confidence. Next term he would be a senior at Belton High School. He was an outstanding athlete, hard of muscle and ever ready for adventure. “Hey, Jack’s right!” Willie suddenly warbled. “Here comes Mr. Livingston now!” A powerfully built man of thirty-eight strode across the dining room to the table by the garden railing. Before becoming a Scout leader, he had spent ten years in FBI work. “Sorry to be late, fellows,” he apologized, seating himself beside Ken. After ordering for the group, he explained that an important conference had delayed him. “You wonder why I invited you here tonight?” he remarked, a twinkle in his eyes. “Is it about our trip to Minnesota?” Jack inquired. “Yes, Jack. I’m afraid it’s off for this year.” As the news sank in, every face mirrored disappointment. For months, the Explorers had planned a canoe trip to the Minnesota lakes. And now it was off! “It’s like this,” Mr. Livingston explained. “I have a chance to head an expedition to Peru. It looks pretty good and I hate to pass it up.” If a rocket had exploded in their midst, the four Rovers could not have been more astonished. “Peru?” echoed Willie. “Way off in South America!” “Right. In many sections, the country still is wild and unexplored. I hate to give up our canoeing trip, but this may be the chance of a lifetime.” “I don’t blame you,” Jack replied politely. “Peru, gosh!” “You’ll go by boat?” inquired Ken. “No, by plane. Our expedition supplies will be sent ahead by freighter. A man named Captain Carter will look after that detail. He’s to meet me here later tonight to discuss the plans.” “Who’ll go with you?” asked War. “When do you leave? And what’s the purpose of the trip?” “One question at a time. First of all, I expect to take all the Rovers.” War dropped his fork. The other Scouts were jolted into rapt attention. “You’re inviting us all to go to Peru?” Jack demanded in disbelief. “That’s right.” “But the Rovers haven’t much folding money.” “All expenses will be paid.” “Say, that’s great!” Jack exclaimed. “But it’s fantastic! Who is the easy-mark willing to pay for this pleasure jaunt?” “I didn’t say the expedition would be a pleasure trip,” Mr. Livingston warned. “The mission will be a tough one—harder than anything we ever attempted before. Mr. Monahan, our backer, is a level-headed business man. He’ll expect results.” By this time, the waiter had brought chicken and steaks, but the four Rovers were too excited to do full justice to the appetizing food set before them. They fairly bombarded Mr. Livingston with questions. “Here’s the meat of it,” he said. “For many years—twelve to be exact—Mr. Monahan’s brother, Burton, lived in Peru. Recently, through a meeting with a missionary in a little coastal village, he learned of an unexplored ancient Inca temple where great treasure had supposedly been hidden at the time Spaniards conquered the country.” “Weren’t the Incas an Indian race?” Willie inquired. “Correct. They excelled at road building, stone work and in the arts. When the Spaniards looted the country about 400 years ago, the Incas saved some of their vast treasure by dumping it into lakes or burying it in caves.” “We’re going to Peru to search for lost treasure?” demanded War excitedly. Mr. Livingston shook his head. “No, the lost treasure concerns us only as it may account for Burton Monahan’s strange disappearance.” “Tell us more,” urged Jack. “Burton Monahan learned of the lost Inca temple through a parchment which an old Peruvian missionary translated for him.” “A parchment?” echoed Willie thoughtfully. “One of those animal skin things the old timers wrote on?” “Right. It was a curious document, written by a Portuguese explorer in the early eighteenth century.” “What became of the parchment?” Ken demanded. “Who has it now?” “Why, I have,” Mr. Livingston replied in an offhand manner. “Accurately speaking, it’s a rough translation. I’ll show it to you in a minute. First, let me tell you more about the expedition.” As the Scouts listened attentively, he explained that the parchment translation had been given to him only a few minutes earlier by Albert Monahan, brother of the missing explorer. “Burton Monahan sent the copy to his brother more than a year ago, hoping to get him to finance a treasure search,” Mr. Livingston related. “Albert Monahan considered the tale about hidden gold pure fantasy. He refused the request. Burton undertook the search alone and poorly equipped. He vanished. That was fully six months ago.” “No one ever heard of him again?” questioned Ken. “A few half-hearted search parties were organized, but little came of them. Captain Carter, who was the last white man to see Burton after he started into the wilds, seems to have a few clues as to the route the missing man took. He’s persuaded Mr. Monahan to finance an expedition to learn whether or not Burton still is alive.” “So we owe the trip to Captain Carter?” commented Jack. “Quite the contrary. Captain Carter expected to control the expedition. He didn’t much like the idea of having me put in charge.” “Then how did we get accepted?” Jack asked, puzzled. “Mr. Monahan doesn’t entirely trust Captain Carter, I suspect. At any rate, in financing the trip, he specified that I was to be in charge. I insisted upon having you fellows along. I’ve already cleared with your parents, so if you’re game to tackle a really tough proposition, the expedition is set.” “Peru, here I come!” Warwick chortled. “Just lead me to the Inca treasure!” added Willie, his eyes sparkling. “It’s quite a responsibility,” said Jack soberly. “I hope we’ll be equal to it.” “You will be. I have full confidence in every member of our little team, and told Mr. Monahan so.” “The parchment translation should be helpful in tracing Burton’s route,” Ken remarked thoughtfully. “You were going to show it to us, Mr. Livingston.” The Scout leader nodded and laid several sheets of folded yellow paper upon the table. He picked one at random, and after studying the fine writing, read aloud: “‘One afternoon we had drawn near unto the blue mountains, and were struck by their strangely jagged peaks—a wild sierra, whose walls gleamed with quartz crystals, betokening the presence of gold. “‘That evening we stood entranced at the glory of the sunset falling on the jeweled rocks, touching them into splendor until cascades of fire seemed to spring from rock to rock. It was a country of strange and unearthly beauty, but over all there seemed to brood a spirit of mystery, an omen of fear.’” As if to whet their curiosity, Mr. Livingston deliberately broke off. Forgetting the manuscript for a moment, he next brought forth from his pocket a bit of multi-colored rope. The cord was tied at intervals with tiny knots. “Now this,” he explained, “is an ancient Inca quipu or book.” “Those knots were used by the Incas to record figures, weren’t they?” Ken recalled from his reading. “Yes, Ken, for our purpose it has no practical value. The parchment translation however, might lead us to Burton Monahan. Particularly if we can find the old missionary who gave it to him originally.” “Read some more,” urged Jack. “That stuff about ‘a spirit of mystery’ sort of intrigues me.” Before Mr. Livingston could pick up the manuscript a waiter approached to say that he was wanted on the telephone. “It may be Mr. Monahan calling,” the Scout leader said, getting up quickly. “Excuse me, fellows. I’ll be right back. Meanwhile, see what you can make of the writing.” After Mr. Livingston had gone, the four Explorers pored over the translation. They were still trying to puzzle out the difficult writing when the waiter reappeared to tell them that they too were wanted in the lobby. “Must be Mr. Livingston,” said Jack. “But why does he send for us, instead of coming back?” “Go and see,” War advised with a shrug. “I’ll wait here.” The other three went quickly to the hotel lobby. Mr. Livingston was not there, nor did they find him in the telephone booth. After trying vainly to learn who had summoned them, they started back to the terrace dining room. “Where’s War?” Ken demanded, noticing that their table was now deserted. Just at that moment, they caught a glimpse of the freckle-faced boy, coming from the opposite direction. “I was looking for you,” War greeted them cheerfully. “Took you an awful long time—say, why that dead-pan look, Jack? What’s wrong?” “The parchment! You didn’t go off and leave it lying unguarded on the table?” “Why, just for a minute,” War admitted, looking scared. “But no one would touch it. Take it easy, Jack! I can see that bundle of colored cord still there.” Without replying, Jack went quickly to the deserted table. True, the quipu lay on the tablecloth beside Ken’s half-empty water glass. But the parchment translation was nowhere visible. Could a breeze have blown the manuscript to the floor? Jack was convinced otherwise, but to make certain he searched under the table and along the terrace railing. “War,” he said, keeping his voice low, “you’re sure you didn’t take those papers with you?” Miserably, the boy shook his head. “I left ’em lying right here on the table. They can’t be gone!” “But they are,” Jack said, his voice grim with worry. “That call to the lobby was a trick by someone to get us away from this table. Mr. Livingston trusted that translation to us, and now it’s been stolen!” |
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