wrest its secret from it.

In addition to our native servants, we took along an English
telegraph-operator named Frank Downes. Nothing of interest enlivened
our journey by rail and caravan till we came to the cluster of
date-palms about the ancient well upon the rim of the Sahara.

It was the very spot at which I first had seen David Innes. If he
had ever raised a cairn above the telegraph instrument no sign of
it remained now. Had it not been for the chance that caused Cogdon
Nestor to throw down his sleeping rug directly over the hidden
instru-ment, it might still be clicking there unheard--and this
story still unwritten.

When we reached the spot and unearthed the little box the instrument
was quiet, nor did repeated attempts upon the part of our telegrapher
succeed in winning a response from the other end of the line.
After several days of futile endeavor to raise Pellucidar, we had
be-gun to despair. I was as positive that the other end of that
little cable protruded through the surface of the inner world as
I am that I sit here today in my study--when about midnight of the
fourth day I was awakened by the sound of the instrument.

Leaping to my feet I grasped Downes roughly by the neck and dragged
him out of his blankets. He didn't need to be told what caused
my excitement, for the instant he was awake he, too, heard the
long-hoped for click, and with a whoop of delight pounced upon the
instrument.

Nestor was on his feet almost as soon as I. The three of us huddled