"You've got good eyes; what d' ye make of that?" and pointed.
Out from the forest trees a party of people had emerged, and they seemed to be lined up in some sort of definite order. Little stared awhile, then replied:
"In uniform, ain't they? Sailors or soldiers, hey?"
"Look like naval seamen to me—natives too—wonder if the Dutch Navy has native crews out here."
"There's at least one white man, Barry. Two—no, three—coming over here, too. Here, let's get back to the boat. Perhaps we'll find out something about this mix-up."
"Bright boy," rejoined the skipper, rising. "Get ready to make the talk. You speak Dutch, don't you?"
"Enough to sell typewriters," grinned the ex-salesman. "I can say gold, and point, anyhow."
Back to the boat they hurried, and Barry first made his men stow their arms out of sight. Armed expeditions were not in favor with the authorities. The action did not escape the gold washers, and they drew together in a huddle, chattering among themselves. They had no arms visible, and the skipper took little heed to them; his entire faculties were working on the problem that faced him. Little, too, stood beside him, waiting for the strangers to come in sight above the hummocks that rose between river and forest. It was one of the gold seekers who startled them into swift life.
"Oh, sar! Dat man he run! He queer fella, sar; no good, dat man!"
Barry swung around, followed the direction of the speaker's outflung arm, and saw a brown figure running like a deer towards the down-river gorge. He had run the minute Barry disarmed his men.