“Yes, only it may be coming in and not going out,” said Frank. “What time is it? My watch stopped when I fell overboard.”
Tom pulled out his watch and examined it’s luminous dial. “Gosh, it’s after eleven!” he exclaimed. “Say, we must have slept four or five hours.”
“There’s that noise again!” cried Frank. “What on earth is it? It seems to come from all around and say—— Gee, look there, Tom! What’s that?”
Startled, Tom glanced about. Far ahead between the trees he could see a ruddy glow.
“Golly, it’s a fire!” he exclaimed in frightened tones. “Let’s get out. It may be those Russians again. Perhaps it’s their camp.”
“And the noise comes from there!” stammered Frank. “It’s dreadful!”
Hurriedly grasping their oars the boys pulled, trying their utmost to swing the boat’s bow around, but it was of no use. The current was running like a millrace and despite their utmost endeavors they were being swept irresistibly towards the fire and that weird, uncanny, hair-raising sound.
Nearer and nearer they swept. Now they could see the ruddy light upon the water ahead. They could even see the flames dancing among the trees and the resonant, throbbing boom rose and fell in terrifying cadence through the night. Then, between the throbbing beats, the boys heard voices; but not the harsh guttural voices of the “reds.” It was even worse, for the sounds borne to the boys—frightened, terror-stricken and helpless in their drifting boat—savored of savages. They were high-pitched, yet musical, rising and falling; one moment dying to a low murmur, the next rising to a blood-curdling wail.
Absolutely paralyzed, the boys sat and stared at the light and the fire they were approaching. What was it? Through their minds flashed stories of cannibals, visions of savage Indians, and yet Rawlins had assured them there were no Indians upon the island. But surely these could be nothing else. Those sounds—dimly, to Tom’s mind came memories of a similar sound he had once heard—yes—that was it—an Indian tom-tom at a Wild West show. They must be savages! Yes, now he could see them, wild, naked, dancing, leaping figures; whirling, gyrating about the fire now less than two hundred yards ahead and within fifty feet of the Lank. Frank had seen them also. He too knew they must be savages. Would they be seen? Would the dancing, prancing fiends detect them as they swept through that circle of light upon the water or were they too busy with their dancing to notice them? Now the drum roared in deafening, booming notes, filling the surrounding forest with its echoes and the savage chant of the prancing figures sent chills over the cowering boys. Just ahead was the expanse of water illuminated by the red glare. In a moment they would be in it. Close to the bank the boys saw canoes drawn ashore, big dug-outs, crude primitive craft. Yes, there were Indians in Santo Domingo, Rawlins must have been mistaken. Now they were in the firelight. They held their breaths and then a moaning hopeless groan issued from the boys’ lips. Their boat slowed down; before they realized what had happened they were caught in an eddy and the next instant their craft bumped with a resounding thud against one of the canoes.
The boys’ senses reeled. They were wedged fast between the dugouts in the brilliant light from the fire and before a cry could escape them, before they could move, two half-naked, awful creatures, hideously painted and with threatening, waving clubs came dashing down the bank.