"Merely to see if it was true there were any natives in the neighbourhood," was the answer. "I never got as far as the camp, but my shouts brought a whole lot of them gibbering round me. It seemed to amuse them to see me there; but they threatened to kill me if I went on shouting, so I had to shut up and hope for the best. They have come each day in little batches and watched me awhile, then slipped away. At last I began to feel so bad that I rather wished they would come and finish me off, to put me out of my misery; so I began calling again. But I suppose my voice was too weak to matter; they knew I couldn't be heard. Anyhow, the beggars didn't touch me. I dare say they'll come again to-day."
Eustace looked scared.
"Oh, I say," he exclaimed, "I hope they won't. They'll take us prisoners, and goodness knows what they'll do to us. We must get away from here before they come."
"You must," said Bob, "but I can't. You'll have to take my compass, and keep going due west with it all the time. You'll know where you are the minute you get out into the open."
Eustace stared at him blankly.
"But I couldn't go and leave you," he exclaimed.
"Why not?" asked Bob with a smile.
"How could I," Eustace said warmly, "and you in danger? I just won't go. Nothing shall make me."
There was a curious light in Bob's eyes as they rested on the slip of a lad kneeling beside him.
"Good old man," he said, "you can't do me any good by staying. For both our sakes you must go, and as fast as you can."