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" language?" repeated Fred Porter. "Is there one?"

"Aha! didn't I say I was going to show you something you never heard of before? You bet there is a whistling language!" chuckled Zeph—"and I'm now about to demonstrate it to you. You see these two boys? Well, they are natives of Gomera, the smallest of the Canary Islands. They were raised in a district where at times there is no living thing within sight, and the vast wilderness in the winding mountains is broken only by the crimson flower of the cactus growing in the clifts of the rock."

"You talk like a literary showman, Zeph Dallas," declared Fred.

"Well, I'm telling the story as I get it, ain't I?" demanded Zeph in an injured tone and with a sharp look at Fred, as if he suspected that he was being guyed. "Anyhow, I want to explain things so you'll understand." Rh