With the rifle still cocked, he stood up, for an instant, to plan just what his next move should be.
“Two out of the four!” he chuckled inwardly. “Fine! What wouldn’t I give to have the white pair in the same fix! Careful, Tom, old fellow! Don’t get rash. Try to get away from here while you’ve the chance!”
He was about to step into the launch, when he heard steps not far away. Someone else was coming through the jungle. Halstead’s heart beat rapidly, his color coming and going swiftly.
“That’s likely to be Sim and the other fellow, coming together,” he muttered. “I can’t get the launch away before they’ll be here. Yet the two together—how on earth can I handle ’em? For I couldn’t shoot either in cold blood.”
Yet something had to be done, and with great speed. So the motor boat boy slipped back up to the beginning of the path through the jungle. Barely thirty seconds later Jig Waters, Sim’s white comrade, stepped boldly through into the open.
Right then and there, however, Jig’s boldness forsook him.
“Hold on, thar! I’m all yo’s!” stammered Jig, softly, holding up his hands. He, too, was marched down to the water’s edge and served precisely as the negroes had been.
“Three!” throbbed Tom Halstead. “Oh, if I could only stow away all four and take ’em back to civilization with me!”