sharply at me, a wonderful smile of
delighted understanding spreading over his face.

"LONG ARROW!" he cried, "don't you see, Stubbins?--Why, of course! Only
a naturalist would think of doing a thing like this: giving his letter
to a beetle--not to a common beetle, but to the rarest of all, one
that other naturalists would try to catch--Well, well! Long Arrow!--A
picture-letter from Long Arrow. For pictures are the only writing that
he knows."

"Yes, but who is the letter to?" I asked.

"It's to me very likely. Miranda had told him, I know, years ago, that
some day I meant to come here. But if not for me, then it's for any one
who caught the beetle and read it. It's a letter to the world."

"Well, but what does it say? It doesn't seem to me that it's much good
to you now you've got it."

"Yes, it is," he said, "because, look, I can read it now. First picture:
men walking up a mountain--that's Long Arrow and his party; men going
into a hole in a mountain--they enter a cave looking for medicine-plants
or mosses; a mountain falling down--some hanging rocks must have slipped
and trapped them, imprisoned them in the cave. And this was the only
living creature that could carry a message for them to the outside
world--a beetle, who could BURROW his way into the open air. Of course
it was only a slim chance that the beetle would be ever caught and the
letter read. But it was a chance; and when men are in great danger they
grab at any straw of hope.... All right. Now look at the next picture:
men pointing to their open mouths--they are hungry; men praying--begging
any one who finds this letter to come to their assistance; men lying
down--they are sick, or starving. This letter, Stubbins, is their last
cry for help."

He sprang to his feet as he ended, snatched out a note-book and put
the letter between the leaves. His hands were trembling with haste and
agitation.

"Come on!" he cried--"up the mountain--all of you. There's not a moment
to lose. Bumpo, bring the water and nuts with you. Heaven only knows how
long they've been pining underground. Let's hope and pray we're not too
late!"

"But where are you going to look?" I asked. "Miranda said the island was
a hundred miles long and the mountains seem to run all the way down the
centre of it."

"Didn't you see the last picture?" he said, grabbing up his hat from
the ground and cramming it on his head. "It was an oddly shaped
mountain--looked like a hawk's head. Well,