Suddenly Burt felt himself thrown roughly to the ground. His bonds were cut and the skin pulled from about his head. As he sat up a strange sight greeted his startled gaze.
Critch sat beside him, rubbing his inflamed hands grimly. All around them stood little men hardly four feet tall. They were armed with knives, spears and bows and were naked save for waist-cloths. Each man wore a square-shaped headdress and all were chattering away with their peculiar guttural clicks. Most of them had arm rings and neck rings of iron or brass.
Beyond them were a number of low huts four feet high arranged in a rough circle and in the center of this circle were the boys. When Burt glanced at the faces of the men around him he was surprised to find them not black but brown, with wide-set eyes and frank expressions. The village was set in the semi-gloom of the deep jungle.
"Well," grunted Critch, "nice mess, ain't it?"
"What'll they do with us?" queried Burt anxiously. "Golly, my hands are fierce! S'pose uncle'll find us?"
"Search me," replied Critch. "What happened to John?"
"Don't talk about it. I don't know." Burt shuddered. "Wonder if they speak French?"
Burt addressed the pigmies in that language. They chattered excitedly in response but he could make nothing of their words. They seemed to be perplexed as to what disposition to make of their prisoners, for one after another chattered angrily while the rest shook their heads.
"Ain't a bad looking lot at that," commented Critch coolly. "High foreheads and good eyes, most of 'em. Look at their color, Burt! S'pose they're the white pigmies?"
"No," replied Burt. "Guess they're Wambuti. Cap'n Mac said they looked like this. By golly! I got it!"