"You bet," answered Critch, a good deal more confidently than he felt, patting the dwarf on the shoulder. "Chase along now, old scout. We'll kill Pongo right enough!"
"Vera good," replied Mbopo. The next instant he was lost in the darkness, and Burt turned to his chum.
"Well, we might as well die game," he said, with an attempt at a smile. "Ready?"
"I s'pose so," responded Critch, who had suddenly lost his confident manner. "Get your matches ready."
The two boys started toward the sacred hut. Both were extremely stiff and sore, and in sad need of sleep. The sound of chanting and the throb of tom-toms came from the village behind without interruption, while in front of them was the forest, silent and black and somber. Suddenly the black hut with its dull gray stockade loomed up before them.
"Who's goin' first?" asked Burt, half-heartedly.
"I will," volunteered Critch. Holding a match ready, he entered the narrow gate of the ivory zareba. The little enclosure around the thatch hut was empty, and before them loomed a small black doorway. Critch, with one swift gesture, scratched the match and flung it inside, stooping to look after it. The brief flame gave them a rapid vista of bare walls and floor.
"Hurray!" whispered the red-haired lad hoarsely. "She's empty!"
Ashamed of his own timidity, Burt stepped past him without a word. As he went, he lit a match and held it on high. Tearing a piece of the loose thatch from the walls, he lit it and cast it on the floor and then the two boys looked around.
The hut was much larger than the other dwellings of the white pigmies. The floor was littered with bones, leaves, sticks and dirt of every description. Close inside the door stood three earthenware vessels, and while Burt threw more leaves and sticks on the little fire, Critch picked up one of these.