“That pitpan has been stove in and destroyed,” said Bob, “so you can’t count on that. Why not go down the river with us, in the Grampus? Have you friends in Port Livingstone?”
“No,” replied the girl, a flash of pleasure crossing her face at Bob’s suggestion that she go away in the submarine, “but I have good friends in Belize—my mother’s people. They will take care of me. I should have stayed there instead of coming on to Port Livingstone as my father told me.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Bob definitely; “we’re going to take you with us when we go.”
“When are you going?” asked the girl.
“Just as soon as we can find out what has become of the rest of our party and do something to help them.”
“The rest of your party? Who are they?”
Thereupon Bob began to tell the girl about Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal, how they had come ashore to reconnoiter and had not returned. Barely had he finished when a low whistle, like a signal, floated out of the depths of the wood. Bob and Dick jumped and clutched their revolvers.
“It’s Pedro!” whispered the girl. “You have nothing to fear from him, but he mustn’t see you. Hide—over there, behind those bushes—and wait till he goes away.”
Bob and Dick hurried in the direction of the girl’s pointing finger. They had no sooner got safely out of sight than Pedro came running breathlessly into the little clearing.