"Only--don't ask me to tackle any of those big dictionary fellows
such as you talked about this morning, uncle Phaeton, for I
simply can't; they'd get away with my baggage while I was trying
to spell their names and title--and all that!"

Without any difficulty the aeromotor was sent out of and above
the forest, heading towards the northwest; that is, direct for
the heart of the Olympics, of whose marvels Professor Featherwit
held such exalted hopes and expectations.

Grim and forbidding those mountains looked as the air-ship sailed
swiftly over them, opening up a wider view when the bare, rugged
crest was once left fairly to the rear. Save for those bald
crowns, all below appeared a solid carpet of tree-tops, now
lower, there higher, yet ever the same: seemingly impenetrable
to man, should such an effort be made.

Once fairly within the charmed circle, leaving the rocky ridge
behind, Professor Featherwit slackened speed, permitting the ship
to drift onward at a moderate pace, one hand touching the
steering-gear, while its fellow held a pair of field-glasses to
his eager eyes.

All at once he gave a half-stifled cry, partly rising in his
excitement, then crying aloud in thrilling tones:

"The sea,--an inland sea!"