Though encouraged by the treatment they had received, the Scouts were fretting under confinement. What, they speculated, would be their fate and Pedro’s? Happy certainly would attempt to find them, and in so doing might lose his life. Their prospects were too dismal to contemplate.
As the sun rose higher, the village became quieter. Armed warriors went exhausted to their hammocks and the camp fires died down. The medicine man, whose strange costume and actions had attracted the Scouts’ attention, vanished from view.
“We’ve lost our chance to try to talk to him,” Jack said in disgust. “If he should be a white man, he probably doesn’t even know that we’re being held here.”
Sunk in gloom, the two abandoned conversation. Because there was nothing else to occupy their minds, they alternately looked after Pedro, and slept. The guide had abandoned all hope, taking no interest in his surroundings. His depression dragged even lower the faltering spirits of the two Scouts.
Jack had fallen into another light doze, when he felt Ken’s touch on his arm. Instantly, he was awake.
“Something’s up!” the other informed him in a half whisper.
The drums were rolling once more, and natives could be seen pouring excitedly out of their huts.
Ken and Jack tried to peer out the doorway, but the guard blocked their view deliberately. He jabbed at them with his spear, forcing them back.
As the hubbub and tumult increased, their curiosity steadily mounted. What was causing such excitement in the village? Were visitors expected or had the natives captured other unfortunate prisoners?
And then, unexpectedly, the cause of the commotion was made known to them. The guard moved aside. Through the hut doorway, supported on either side by Warwick and Willie, staggered Mr. Livingston!