"Hadn't you heard? About twenty-five or thirty of 'em pulled their freight out of here—they beat it back for home."
"Those bimbos must know," said another; "this is their country."
"That's what we ought to do," growled another—"get out of here and go back."
"Shut up!" snapped Orman. "You guys make me sick. Who ever picked this outfit for me must have done it in a pansy bed."
Naomi Madison was sitting next to him. She turned her frightened eyes up to him. "Did some of the blacks really run away last night?" she asked.
"For Pete's sake! don't you start in too," he exclaimed; then he got up and stamped away from the table.
At the foot of the table some one muttered something that sounded like that epithet which should always be accompanied with a smile; but it was not.
By ones and twos they finished their breakfasts and went about their duties. They went in silence without the customary joking that had marked the earlier days of the expedition.
Rhonda and Naomi gathered up the hand baggage that they always took in the car with them and walked over to the machine. Baine was at the wheel warming up the motor. Gordon Z. Marcus was stowing a make-up case in the front of the car.
"Where's Bill?" asked Rhonda.