It was some time before Madcap Max could realize just where he was, and the significance of the demonstration of which he was the recipient.
But when once his mind got a clew, he quickly followed it up, and with the natural smartness of his Yankee ancestry, saw the advantages of his position.
He very carefully abstained from uttering a word.
The silence impressed the Gondos with awe.
They were more than ever convinced that he was a messenger from the mysterious powers which they, in their ignorance, worshiped.
The Gondos had a religious belief almost akin to that of the ancient Scandinavians.
They believed that the thunder was the angry voice of the storm god, that a deity presided over everything in nature, and that the entrance to the home of the most powerful of these deities was through the mysterious volcanoes which at times emitted vast columns of molten lava and made the waters of the rivers so hot that no one could bathe in them and live.
Having this belief, it was no wonder that they thought Max and Ibrahim were sent by the presiding deity.
Ibrahim continued to sleep.
That was a good sign, and if only the delirium left him when he awoke, Max made sure all would be well.
He managed to convey to the chief a desire to be alone, and the boat was again raised on the shoulders of the deputy chiefs and carried to a large house which the chief had set apart for his honored guests.
Max was hungry, and when food was brought he ate heartily.
He had no idea of what the dish was composed, neither did he, at that time, care.
He was too hungry to be fastidious.
He reserved some of the savory food for Ibrahim, and motioned the natives to leave the place.
All that day Max stayed by Ibrahim’s side, and awaited his awakening.
His devoted patience was rewarded, and toward night Ibrahim awoke and raised his head.
“Are we alive?” he asked.
“I am,” was the madcap’s answer.
“Then I think I must be; but, by the beard of the prophet, I have been beyond the grave.”
“Good! Stick to that, Ib, and your fortune is made.”
Ibrahim was indignant at the light way in which his companion spoke, but Max persisted.
“I tell you, Ib, if only you will stick to that, and do as I tell you, we will coin the dollars.”
“That is like you Americans—always thinking of dollars.”
“And why not? Can you get along without dollars?”
“Perhaps not; but why be always thinking about them? I hate the very name of money,” exclaimed Ibrahim, fretfully.
“Do you? Well, I don’t,” answered Max, and continued talking, for he realized that there was no better way to rouse Ibrahim’s dormant faculties than by a good discussion.
“I don’t,” he said—“neither do you. You will go on making shawls in Persia, no matter how many dollars you get. You want to travel—you must have the money or you cannot do it. Say, old chap! did you never imagine that every dollar is coined through some fellow’s think tank being agitated?”
“Think tank! What do you mean?”
“Brain, if you like. Think tank, I call it—thought factory, if you like it better. But, say! you were dead, and you have come to life again. I have brought you from the grave.”
“You are mad.”
“Madcap, please; don’t abbreviate my sobriquet.”
“You are insane.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. But tell me, Max, where are we?”
“You are in a boat, I am on the floor; we are in a house belonging to the Gondos——”
“Who?”
“The Gondos.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“Not much.”
“Can you understand what they say?”
“Only a little.”
“If they are Gondos, I am safe.”
“Are you? And why so, Mister Ibrahim Pasha?” asked Max, with a broad brogue.
“The Gondos were originally Persians——”
“Your relatives?”
“And were fire worshipers.”
“Is that so?”
“And I have learned their language.”
“Have you, really?”
“I thought they were extinct.”
“Not by any means; they are as thick as blackberries on a bramble bush, and as lively as June bugs.”
By talking in this fashion, Max succeeded in making Ibrahim vexed, and that was the very best thing for his mind.
When his temper had cooled a little, Ibrahim became calm, and then Max told him how they had been rescued.
“They think we are from the storm gods, and so we must be, or they must think so, and we shall be safe. Once let them get any other idea into their ugly heads, and we shall be made into soup.”
“The Gondos never eat meat,” said Ibrahim, taking Max to mean what he said in a literal sense.
“Anyway, we must keep up the delusion.”
“Can we?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You must do just what I tell you. I have it all arranged.”
“If we fail?”
“We shall die; but if we succeed, we shall soon see Sherif el Habib——”
“And Girzilla,” added Ibrahim.
“We shall. Now to begin. I am going to make it rain. You know the language, you said?”
“I believe so.”
“Then you must tell them what I am going to do.”
“What can you do?”
“Never mind. I know they want rain, and would do anything to get it. I want you to hurry, or my power will be lost.”
Ibrahim was of too serious a nature to care for practical joking, and that was just what he imagined the madcap was after.
But Max was in earnest, and he led Ibrahim from the strange-looking house to the one occupied by the chief.
The tattooed chieftain bowed himself to the ground when he saw Ibrahim.
But when the Persian spoke a few words in the Gondo language, the old fellow was so delighted that he danced about and shouted like a good fellow.
“The Gondos want rain. Their fields are dry, the crops are spoiling. Tell them I will cause the rain to come.”
Max spoke in English and Ibrahim translated into the Gondo language.
The chief ordered the girls to play the cymbals and the drums to be beaten.
All the people gathered together, and Max raised his hands above his head as if in the act of supplicating.
Almost immediately a few drops of rain fell, and the people were delighted.
The drops became larger and more numerous, until a good, healthy shower descended, and the Gondos were frantic with joy.
Even Ibrahim was excited.
“How did you do it?” he asked, earnestly, when Max had pleaded for permission to return to their house.
“You silly fellow, I did nothing. It was all hocus-pocus on my part.”
“But the rain——”
“Came; of course it did. I saw that we were in for a shower, and I meant to get the credit of it; that is all there is to it.”
Max was a weather prophet.
He had a better knowledge of meteorology than many a so-called expert, and he saw clear indications that a rain-cloud was gathering.
The one happy chance of his life had come.
It was a miracle, at least so thought the Gondos, and nothing was too good for Ibrahim and Max.
But even among those primitive people there were skeptics, and a long discussion took place as to the powers possessed by Max.
Ibrahim heard the discussion, and returned to the madcap, his face white as death.
“You are to be taken to some high rock and ordered to jump down. If you fail your character is gone.”
“And life, too. Never mind. Get me some giant palm leaves, and I’ll not be afraid.”
Ibrahim obeyed without question, and when on the following morning Max and the Persian were conducted by the tribe to a steep cliff, Max laughed heartily.
But when he looked over, he saw that he had a thousand chances against him, and naturally felt nervous.
“Tell them,” he said, in English, to Ibrahim, “that to jump off there would be no test. Anyone could do it.”
“Of course they could, but they would be killed.”
“Don’t say that, but say that I will go to the top of yonder palm and leap from it.”
The palm was a tall one, the trunk slender and easily climbed, but the height was such that to jump from the top meant death.
The offer made by Max was accepted, and the young madcap began his perilous ascent.
When near the top he stood on the stem of one of the monster leaves, and rested a moment.
From under his coat he took two palm leaves which he had succeeded in joining together.
Opening them above his head, he held his breath and jumped.
As he expected, the wind filled out the palm leaves like a parachute and Max came to the ground so gently that the most pronounced skeptic was enthused, and ready to do anything for the young hero.
“We have a mission!” Ibrahim said to the chief, “and thy people must help. In the desert there is an oasis, and on the oasis is a great man, one Sherif el Habib, who is seeking the Mahdi of his people. We wish to find him.”
Ibrahim explained the locations of the oasis as well as he could, and the chief recognized it as being a place some adventurous member of his tribe had told him about.
After some days absolute rest a caravan was formed, and with girls playing cymbals and others beating drums, Max and Ibrahim started on their journey across the desert to find their friends.