He stepped back, gazing upward.
“I can do it,” he cried. “Give me a hand, Jack. Cup your hands for a leg up.”
“Do what?”
“Scale that wall,” cried Bob. “Mud wall’s about eight feet high. We can swarm over it, drop into the chief’s courtyard, and then from behind the wall on the other side we can attack the enemy in the rear. Come on.”
“Right,” said Jack, putting his back against the wall and cupping his hands.
Without more words. Bob set a foot therein and springing gripped the top of the wall and pulled himself up. Then, facing about, he lay down, with his arms hanging. And Jack, leaping upward, seized his wrists and was pulled to position beside him.
“All right, Frank,” cried Bob.
“Take this camera first,” Frank answered. “If you fellows are going to take potshots at the enemy from the chief’s domicile, I want some pictures of it.”
“Hurry, then,” cried Bob, impatiently. And Frank obediently hoisted aloft the camera on its long tripod, which was seized and whisked to position over the wall. Frank was boosted up by Wimba and hauled to position beside his comrades.
“Me come, too, baas,” pleaded the faithful fellow.