Rawlins jerked him to athwart. “Brace up, you fool nigger!” he commanded. “No one’s hurting you yet! You’re a blamed coward, Sam! What if ’tis Voodoo? What in thunder are you scared of?”
Slowly the negro came back to his senses; shaking like a leaf, sickly ashen with fright, he steadied himself. “Ah aint 'fraid,” he stuttered, his tones belying his words. “Ah was jus’ flustrated, Chief. But Ah don’t mek to meddle with Voodoo, Chief. Better go back, Chief.”
“You bet your boots we’ll go back—not!” declared Rawlins. “I’d like right well to see a Voodoo as you call it. And if there’s any folks around here—black or white, tame or savage, we’re out to find ’em and have a pow-wow with ’em. Maybe the boys saw their fire and made for it, and maybe the fire’s nothing to do with the tom-tom, and more likely than all it’s not a devil dance at all but just those blamed Bolsheviks having a vodka spree all on their own—celebrating the boys’ capture or something. Come on, men, let’s get a move on.”
“Perhaps we’d better try to call the boys,” suggested Mr. Pauling. “Your hint that they may have seen the fire, or that they may have heard the drum is reasonable, but they are cautious and might be near, hesitating to approach the fire or the sound. The noise of that drum—supposing it should be the ‘reds’ and not from a negro dance—would prevent others from hearing us.”
“Sure, that’s a good idea,” agreed Rawlins. “Maybe they’re near, right now.”
As Rawlins spoke, Bancroft was adjusting his instruments and the next instant gave an exultant cry.
“I hear ’em!” he announced.
Then: “Tom! Frank!” he called into the microphone. “Can you hear me? It’s Bancroft! We’re near! We can hear a drum and are making for a fire! Where are you? Can you see the fire or hear the noise?”
Faint and thin, but clearly distinguishable, now the throbbing rumble of the drum had ceased, Bancroft heard Tom’s voice.
“We hear!” it said. “Come quick! We don’t know where we are, but we’re here by the fire—we’re prisoners—a lot of savages have us!”