“I’ll tell you,” replied the young inventor, sitting down on a packing box.  “It would take too long to read the letter so I’ll sum it up, and you can go over it later.”

“To be brief, Mr. Illingway tells of a wonderful golden image that is worshiped by a tribe of Africans in a settlement not far from Gumba Twamba, where he is stationed.  It’s an image of solid gold—­”

“Solid gold!” interrupted Mr. Swift.

“Yes, dad, and about three feet high,” went on Tom, referring to the letter to make sure.  “It’s heavy, too, no hollows in it, and these Africans regard it as a god.  But that’s not the strangest part of it.  Mr. Illingway goes on to say that there is no gold in that part of Africa, and for a time he was at a loss how to account for the golden image.  He made some inquiries and learned that it was once the property of a white traveler who made his home with the tribe that now worships the image of gold.  This traveler, whose name Mr. Illingway could not find out, was much liked by the Africans.  He taught them many things, doctored them when they were sick, and they finally adopted him into the tribe.”

“It seems that he tried to make them better, and wanted them to become Christians, but they clung to their own beliefs until he died.  Then, probably thinking to do his memory honor, they took the golden image, which was among his possessions, and set it up as a god.”

“Bless my hymn book!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.  “What did they do that for?”

“This white man thought a great deal of the image,” said Tom, again referring to the letter, “and the Africans very likely imagined that, as he was so good to them, some of his virtues had passed into the gold.  Then, too, they may have thought it was part of his religion, and as he had so often wanted them to adopt his beliefs, they reasoned out that they could now do so, by worshiping the golden god.”

“Anyhow, that’s what they did, and the image is there to-day, in that far-off African village.  But I haven’t got to the real news yet.  The image of solid gold is only a part of it.”

“Before this traveler died he told some of the more intelligent natives that the image had come from a far-off underground city—­a regular city of gold—­nearly everything in it that was capable of being made of metal, being constructed of the precious yellow gold.  The golden image was only one of a lot more like it, some smaller and some larger—­”

“Not larger, Tom, not larger, surely!” interrupted Mr. Swift.  “Why, my boy, think of it!  An image of solid gold, bigger even than this one Mr. Illingway writes of, which he says is three feet high.  Why, if there are any larger they must be nearly life size, and think of a solid gold statue as large as a man—­it would weigh—­well, I’m afraid, to say how much, and be worth—­why, Tom, it’s impossible.  It would be worth millions—­all the wealth of a world must be in the underground city.  It’s impossible Tom, my boy!”