“Sure,” replied Hank. “I’ve told them they’ve only got to shout and I’ll give five dollars to the chap that shouts the loudest. I tipped them that these guys have got an American girl with them and that the American Government will plaster them with dollars if we get her away—Oh, they’re right enough. Now, not a word out of you all when we get to the beach. Just follow B. C. and hold your breath for the shouting.”
The boat grounded on the soft sand and they tumbled out, hauled her up a few feet and Hank, taking a small lantern he had brought with him, lit it and placed it on the sands close to the bow. Then they started. Europe in the van, Asia in the rear.
The rocks were soon reached. The rocks just here are easy to negotiate, great flat-topped masses rising gradually from the bayside to a summit that falls as gradually to the sands of the bay beyond.
When they reached the summit the blaze of two fires on the beach showed out close together, their light blending in an elliptical zone, beyond which the tents hinted of themselves.
“The Chinks are round one, the white men by the other,” said Candon. “Couldn’t be better for we’ve got them divided. Now then, you two, follow me and do as I do—and for the love of Mike don’t sneeze. Got your guns handy? That’s right.”
He began the descent. Then when they reached the sands he got on hands and knees.
Scarcely had he done so than the notes of a guitar came through the night from the camp of the white slavers and the first words of a song. They could not make out the words, but they could tell at once that the singer was neither American nor English. That high nasal voice spoke of Spain where the cicadas shrill in the plane trees in the heat-shaken air.
“Dagoes,” said Hank.
“Come on,” said Candon.
Then, had anyone been watching, across the sands towards the zone of fire-light, six forms might have been seen crawling, liker to land crabs than the forms of men or beasts.