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The next instant the fellow was on his back, with Tad sitting on his chest. "Here, here! What's the matter with you?" gasped a muffled voice, which Tad instantly recognized. "Kris Kringle!" he gasped. "Yes; and you nearly knocked the breath out of me," grinned the guide, struggling to his feet. "Well, you certainly are a whirlwind."
Do you think we had better start to-night, Mr. Kringle?" "No. There is no necessity." "What am I going to do for a pony?" asked Chunky. "You can ride one of mine. I always take two when on a long journey," replied the guide. Chunky's first act after reaching camp, was to provide himself with a shirt.
There Kris Kringle, Santa Claus's other self, with snowy beard, and fur coat hoary with the frost of Arctic travel from the land of unfailing snow and unfailing toys, stood beside his tree glittering with crystal and shining with the fruits of every industry and every clime.
The alluring scent of gaudily painted toys pervaded the Christmas atmosphere, quite offsetting the hint of steam from more fortunate depths, and one could sniff the odour of freshly buttered pop-corn. All these signs spoke of children and the proximity of Kris Kringle, and yet there were no little Bingles, nor had there ever been so much as one! Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were childless.
The rays of the lantern disclosed a short stairway, built of the same material of which the house itself had been constructed. Mr. Marquand forced himself past the guide and was down the steps in a twinkling. He was followed by the wondering Pony Rider Boys, Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle in short order, for all crowded down through the narrow opening.
Before starting, Mr. Kringle sorted out some strong manila rope and several tent stakes all of which he did up into two bundles. Then he filled the magazine of his rifle, throwing this over his shoulder. "What's that for?" questioned Ned. "The gun?" "Yes." "Can't tell what we may run into in a cave, you know." After a final look at the camp all hands set out for the place indicated by Tad.
He did not know that Kris Kringle fully expected an ambush, nor that two would stand a better chance to get through and out-wit the savages than would half a dozen of them. The pair had approached nearly to the camp, for which the guide was heading, when suddenly a hand was laid on the boy's arm in a firm grip. Tad knew the guide had seen or heard something. "What is it?" "There!"
At first nothing happened. The moonlit landscape lay as silent and peaceful as if there were not a human being on the desert. There were six distinct flashes all at once and a rain of lead showered into the door. Kris Kringle took a pot shot at one of the flashes, then slammed the door shut and barred it. "Well; I hope that would get you," he muttered.
Tad, with the rod grasped firmly in his hands, walked back and forth three times without result. On the fourth attempt, however, the stick suddenly bent nearly double. All were amazed. "Why were we unable to get results, Mr. Kringle?" questioned the Professor. "According to some French writers as much depends upon the man as on the divining rod. Where one succeeds another fails absolutely.
There's not much in this part of the country that prospectors have not looked over." "May we explore these caves, Professor?" asked Tad. "Please let us?" urged Walter. "I see no objection if Mr. Kringle will be responsible for you. I rather think I'll look into them myself. I'll confess the idea interests me. Are they easy to get at?" "I'm afraid not," answered Tad.
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