"Good Lord!" gasped Hammer in dismay. "I never had any idea—why, she must know Arabic! Oh, darn it all, anyway—I wish I was out of this confounded place! Mixed up with blue-eyed fat men and short-haired women and Dutchmen—good night!"
The Kiswahili had vanished. Potbelly had vanished. Even the daylight had almost vanished, and without a word Hammer flung down the whip, tore the note into pieces and threw it to the breeze, then turned to the tent of the "lady professor", as he mentally termed her.
"Very sorry, Professor Helmuth." He raised his voice, but without especial civility in his tone. "I apologize, of course. I didn't know you understood Arabic. I'll trouble you no more."
As no answer came he returned to the other tent, and in desperation seated himself on a camp-stool. With his pipe alight, he faced the fast-gathering shadows outside, and a few moments later was startled by a wild outburst of yells.
Knowing nothing of the country, when the yells grew closer and more threatening the American leaped to the conclusion that the natives were on the war-path, and he leaped up.
Almost at his side stood a heavy, double-barrelled shotgun, and, making sure that this was loaded, he stepped to the front of the tent to investigate. No one seemed to be in sight, for darkness was almost on the camp; but, seeing a light in the other tent, he walked toward it with the idea of defending the lady professor.
The place was an inferno, what with the shrill yells and occasional shots; and from the noise, Hammer concluded that the camp must be surrounded by hundreds of men.
Suddenly a dark figure loomed up in the dusk a few feet away, and instantly he brought up his weapon.
"Hold on!" he shouted angrily. "Who the devil are you?"
For answer he felt the barrel of the gun gripped and flung up, and found himself looking into the wrong end of a revolver. Then——