“This is a hard crowd,” Jim admitted. They started to retrace their steps but by the time they reached the fallen logs, the air was almost clear, the live insects had struggled on, while only a few who could go no further, fluttered to the ground, which was white with their fallen mates. Instinctively Bob’s eyes sought the spot from which the dart had been thrown at him, but it was empty; there wasn’t a native in sight, young or old.
“They are gone,” he gasped in astonishment.
“Look who’s here!” The Flying Buddies had been discovered by one of the gang, and a tall ugly looking customer who carried a gun in his hand, turned quickly. “Our welcome guests.”
“What are you doing here?” the tall fellow snarled.
“Dropped down very much as you did, I reckon,” answered Jim.
“Bugs drive you out of the sky?” This was probably the pilot who had just been driven out himself.
“Like blazes. That motor hasn’t been running lately. If the bugs forced you down, what you doing over here? Come on, speak out, and reach for the sky, while the reaching is good,” came the sharp command.
“Aw, be yourself,” Bob retorted angrily. “I’m not reaching to anything for a goof like you—”
“Aint you—” The gun pointed threateningly, then one of the men interposed sharply.
“Put it down, Mills.” It was the smallest man in the crowd who gave the order and he strode forward. “What you fellows doing here?”