A few minutes more and they stood on the outskirts of the town.
“Make for the chief temple, Spottie,” said Don to their guide; “and whatever you do, don't call us sahib or sir. We're only pilgrims like yourself, you understand. And say, Spottie, do you know old Salambo, the shark-charmer, when you see him?”
By a nod Spottie intimated that he did.
“Good! He's the chap we're after, you understand. Keep a sharp look-out, and if you happen to get your eye on him——”
“Or on a lascar with a knife-wound in his shoulder,” put in Jack.
“Just pull my cloth, will you?” concluded Don.
Again the trusty Spottie nodded, and at a signal led the way into the main-street, where they immediately found themselves in the midst of a noisy, surging crowd of natives.
So perfect was their disguise, however, that Don could not detect a single suspicious glance directed towards them.
The natives who thronged the street were, to a man, heading for the temples. Into these, if nothing was seen of the shark-charmer outside, Don was resolved to penetrate.
As no English foot is ever allowed—in Southern India, at least—to cross the threshold of a Hindu shrine, this was a step attended with tremendous risk. Detection would mean fighting for their lives against overwhelming odds.