carrying it himself too, and did so for the larger part of the way
to Santa Brigida, and it was only when he was within an ace of
dropping himself with sheer tiredness that he condescended to let
me take my turn. He was tolerably ungracious about it too. "I
suppose you may as well carry the stuff," he snapped, "seeing that
after all it's your own."

Personally, when we got to the fonda, I had as good a dinner
as was procurable, and a bottle of that old Canary wine, and turned
into bed after a final pipe. Coppinger dined also, but I have
reason to believe he did not sleep much. At any rate I found him
still poring over the find next morning, and looking very heavy-
eyed, but brimming with enthusiasm.

"Do you know," he said, "that you've blundered upon the most
valuable historical manuscript that the modern world has ever yet
seen? Of course, with your clumsy way of getting it out, you've
done an infinity of damage. For instance, those top sheets you
shelled away and spoiled, contained probably an absolutely unique
account of the ancient civilisation of Yucatan."

"Where's that, anyway?"

"In the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. It's all ruins to-day,
but once it was a very prosperous colony of the Atlanteans."

"Never heard of them. Oh yes, I have though. They were the
people Herodotus wrote about, didn't he? But I thought they were
mythical."