“Smell anythin’?” says Mark.
“No,” says I.
“Not smoke?” says he.
I started sniffing again, harder than ever. It’s lucky I’ve got a good, well-constructed nose, or I’d have sniffed it clean off that day. But I got results. Sure as shooting I could get just the faintest whiff of a fire somewheres.
“Must be right ahead,” says I. “That’s where the wind’s blowin’ from.”
Mark nodded. “Got to see what it is,” says he. “War p-p-party maybe. We mustn’t be taken by s’prise. Come on as quiet as you can.”
We got on to our stomachs and wriggled along like a couple of alligators, though I will say Mark looked more like an armadillo. Alligators run more to length than to thickness, but Mark ran to vice versa as you might say. We just inched along, and as we went the smell of smoke got stronger.
There was a little hummock just ahead with lots of bushes on it. We made for it, getting our faces and hands nicely scratched up, and went up it like a couple of snails climbing a roof—if snails ever climb roofs. Mark was ahead. When he got to the top he flattened down as much as he could, and it looked to me like he was trying to shove himself right into the ground. I edged up alongside and looked.
Maybe you think I didn’t crowd the ground a little myself. I’ll bet I made a dent in it that’s there to this day. For not thirty feet away was a little fire with two men bending over it cooking something or other. Their backs were toward us and so we couldn’t see their faces, but we could tell they were short and broad. One of them had on overalls and a hickory shirt. The other one wore shabby black pants and a gray flannel shirt. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t dare even whisper.
We laid there as still as a cat in front of a mouse-hole and watched. After a while one of the men turned, and we could see his face. It was a whole lot like Motu’s. A little darker, and not so intelligent or handsome, but of the same race, all right. Then the other one turned, and he was a Japanese, too!