The march onward for the next two days was tiresome; but the Indians Tolpec had secured were as faithful and efficient as he had described them, and good progress was made.

There were a few accidents.  One native fell into a swiftly running stream as they were fording it and lost a box containing some much-needed things.  But as the man’s life was saved Professor Bumper said it made up for the other loss.  Another accident did not end so auspiciously.  One of the bearers was bitten by a poisonous snake, and though prompt measures were taken, the poison spread so rapidly that the man died.

In due season the Indian village was reached. where, after a day spent in holding funeral services over the dead bearer, preparations were made for proceeding farther.

This time some of the bearers were left behind, and ox-carts were substituted for them, as it was possible to carry more goods this way,

“And now we’re really off for Copan!” exclaimed Professor Bumper one morning, when the cavalcade, led by Tolpec in the capacity of head guide, started off.  “I hope we have no more delays.”

“I hope not, either,” agreed Tom.  “That Beecher may be there ahead of us.”

Weary marches fell to their portion.  There were mountains to climb, streams to ford or swim, sending the carts over on rudely made rafts.  There were storms to endure, and the eternal heat to fight.

But finally the party emerged from the lowlands of the coast and went up in among the hills, where though the going was harder, the climate was better.  It was not so hot and moist.

Not wishing to attract attention in Copan itself, Professor Bumper and his party made a detour, and finally, after much consultation with Tom over the ancient maps, the scientist announced that he thought they were in the vicinity of the buried city.

“We will begin test excavations in the morning,” he said.

The party was in camp, and preparations were made for spending the night in the forest, when from among the trees there floated to the ears of our friends a queer Indian chant.

“Some one is coming,” said Tom to Ned.

Almost as he spoke there filed into the clearing where the camp had been set up, a cavalcade of white men, followed by Indians.  And at the sight of one of the white men Tom Swift uttered a cry.

“Professor Beecher!” gasped the young inventor.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LOST MAP

The on-marching company of white men, with their Indian attendants, came to a halt on the edge of the clearing as they caught sight of the tents already set up there.  The barbaric chant of the native bearers ceased abruptly, and there was a look of surprise shown on the face of Professor Fenimore Beecher.  For Professor Beecher it was, in the lead of the rival expedition.

“Bless my shoe laces!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.