One of the Finest Boys' Stories Ever Written
FOR HIS VOW'S SAKE
A Wild Dash to a Strange Land
GOOD-NIGHT, Guest."
"Good-night, Mr. Greville."
"Make the most of it," continued the latter, "for this may be your very last chanec of a sound slumber for many a month."
Cyril Guest laughed—the "don't care" laugh of one who seeks to hide misgivings with the air of being perfectly at case.
Through Cyril Guest's excited brain as, following his companion's advice, he vainly strove to compose himself for sleep, surged in endless panorama the scenes through which he had passed since leaving America, London, Dover, Calais, Paris, Berlin, Warsaw, Moscow—these were the principal milestones of the weary journey.
The travelers were still in the train on the Trans-Siberian Railway, within a few hours' journey of Krasnoiarsk, whence it was their intention to cross Siberia, bound for the Mongolian frontier. Although in a sense companions, the two travelers had been thrown together in a manner somewhat out of the ordinary.
Horace Greville, mining expert, was on a propecting tour. He was a man used to roughing it, and this was his third trip to these regions. Cyril Guest, on the other hand, was a mere youth—not yet eighteen (though his looks belied his age). This was his first long journey, and his objective—unknown as yet to the other—bordered on the romantic.
Happening to hear that Greville was going out to Mongolia, Cyril had, after some negotiations, been allowed as a matter of business to accompany him. Oftentimes in the course of his journeyings so far Cyril had been tempted to take Greville into his confidence, but had hung back, fearing the effect of the disclosure on so matter-of-fact and business-like a traveler.
Never was he more inclined to do so, however, than now, when the first part of the journey was nearing its close.
Opening his eyes with a start as the train, running over a badly laid bit of the line, bade fair to jump the metals, Cyril encountered Horace Greville's good-humored questioning glance in his direction.
"Sleep out of the question, eh?" said Greville.
"Rather! Don’t you find it so?"
"Yes, the nearer we get to Krasnoiarsk the more I seem to get the fidgets, though the plain matter-of-fact of it is that I've got you on my mind."
"Me?" ejaculated Cyril, in well-feigned surprise.
"It’s no business of mine, I know; but, all the same. I'm simply eaten up with curiosity as to whatever can have induced you to undertake this journey."
"The bargain was that you should ask no questions, wasn't it?" urged Cyril.
"I admit it," replied Greville; "but look here, Guest. You and I are pledged to one another's company for some months. As one who has journeyed far and wide in his time, and speaking from experience, I must say that in such circumstances as ours mutual confidence is a benefit in more ways than one."
"Oh, I agree there," exclaimed Cyril.
"You know my circumstances exactly," continued Greville. "I'm a mining expert—more or less a free lance—on a prospecting tour. You also know the company I represent."
"I'm a free lance quite," answered Cyril, "journeying absolutely on my own account."
"So I have understood all along; but why does your objective demand so much secrecy?"
"To ensure your not backing out at the last moment," replied Cyril.
"How mysterious you are," replied the other. "Are you a member of some secret society? If so, look out in Russia."
Cyril laughed merrily.
"Oh, no," said he, "at least, there's nothing political; though yours is, after all, not such a bad guess."
"Having proceeded so far," continued Greville, "and if you feel you can trust me with your secret, why not take me into your confidence?"
"I intended doing so," replied Cyril, "the moment we had reached a point whence any idea of turning back was entirely out of the question."
"You're pretty determined," was Greville's comment, "but surely we now have proceeded sufficiently on our journey for your purpose."
"I think so." said Cyril. "To begin with, I was educated at Helmscote College, intended for one of the big professions. The sudden death of my father interrupted my course of study, and I never returned. Casting about for an employment suited to my tastes, I had almost decided on making for the Northwest, when one morning my attention was attracted by a paragraph in a newspaper. It seems that in the 'Agony' column of the Times there had appeared an advertisement written in Chinese.”
"That was a novelty," ejaculated Greville, "and I suppose some enterprising journalist had taken the trouble to get it translated?"
"That's precisely what happened," replied Cyril.
"And," continued Greville, "what might have been the wording?"
"I can't give you the Chinese version of it," replied Cyril; "but in plain English it read thus: 'I declare—Tobolensk-Mongolia—communica-
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