"Oh, you'll have to can that rarebit dream!" cried Harry.
"I will not!" exclaimed Billy indignantly. "I'm going to print it."
"On the funny page maybe. I'd like to see the newspaper that would
publish such a yarn."
Alas for poor Billy! Harry was right.
Nobody would believe his strange tale and last he grew tired of
telling it, and even to hardly credit it himself.
As for George Desmond's time-yellowed pages they repose in the
Smithsonian Institute, and after a learned wrangle between savants
of all countries--lasting many months--it was agreed that the poor
explorer must have lost his mind and that the narrative of the
Flying Men was the offspring of a brain crazed by suffering.
"It's a strange termination to our adventures to be steaming home on
Barr's yacht," said Frank, after a long pause in which they had all
gazed back at the fast dimming shore of the Dark Continent.
"I should say so," cried Lathrop. "It's as near as I ever want to
get to him, too."
"Same here," joined in Billy, "but I don't suppose we shall ever
hear from him again."
But Billy was wrong.
The boys did hear from Luther Barr again and in an extraordinary
manner. The malevolent old man was to be the cause of some
surprising adventures in which the boys at the risk of their lives
were once more pitted against powerful enemies.
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