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106
TEE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
in her world, and her family were marionettes to dance her bidding. A surprisingly few moments later, therefore, the castaway was lying in a comfortable bed in the bungalow, with a doctor professionally peering at his tongue. But the Atlantic Ocean, days of sun-harried thirst and nights of watching had put him beyond the healing of pills or powders. It was soon evident that the stranger was stumbling over every laboring breath into the kindly peace that he had prayed for, with withering lips and
was a rudely drawn map, with the name of a town on the coast and a river sprawling inland. Unfolding and deciphering the rest," it read :
My name is Jose Cavella. My son Manuel and I have discovered great gold mines in Africa. I started out to get machinery and funds in Cuba, leaving Manuel in charge. Our schooner was wrecked. I am the only survivor. Soon, too, I shall die. This is written in the hopes that the one finding it will go to Africa and save my son. It will have to be soon, for his provisions are nearly gone. If the finder will do this he shall have my half
COMFORTABLY SETTLED IN THEIR AFRICAN CAMP
swollen tongue, in the drifting boat. On the very threshold he seemed to turn back an instant. Vida, bending pityingly over him, caught the flash of mind in the glazing eyes.
' ' The — papers — pocket — t-tell
Manuel " The poor, laboring
words flickered, then went out with his. flickering breath, as a candle is quenched.
"Manuel!" murmured the girl, softly — the name clung to her imagination like an echo from the strange, unknown world of Make-Believe. A little later, Vida and Dr. Benson, searching the torn clothes, came upon a bottle in which was thrust a crumpled wad of paper. One sheet
of the mines. I would give all the gold in the world for a pint of water — my God,
let me die soon — soon
I think this is the end. With this I seal my map of the mine and a picture of my boy — Manuel — Man
Vida gazed down at the picture that had fallen from the bottle with the papers — the picture of a darkeyed youth with boyish lips and a man's grim, firm chin. The eyes seemed strangely alive as they met hers — the eyes of the Prince in the fairy tale ; the eyes of the half -imagined, shy hero of her girlish dreams. With a sudden quiver of decision, Vida faced the doctor, preparatory defiance in her voice.