Shaking his fist at the howling mob, he sprang up the steep hill-path, followed closely by Don. Spottie had already made good use of his legs, but they soon caught him up, whereupon Jack seized the terrified native by the arm and dragged him over the brow of the ridge.
Down the further side they dashed, breathing easier now, for their movements were here well concealed by the dense jungle through which the pathway ran. As they emerged panting upon the sandy shore of the lagoon, a yell from the hill behind told them that their pursuers had gained the crest of the ridge. At the same instant Don pulled up abruptly, and being too much out of breath to speak, pointed in the direction of the canoe. Beside it stood a couple of natives, who, on seeing them, turned and fled towards the jungle.
“The tall fellow!” shouted Jack. “Stop him! He's got the boathook!”
The boathook was their only means of propelling the canoe. That gone, they were practically at the mercy of their enemies.
After the flying natives they dashed, Jack leading. He quickly came up with the hinder-most, whom he dealt a blow that stretched him senseless in the sand. But the fellow who carried the boathook was long of leg and fresh of wind; while Jack was still a dozen yards in his rear, he gained the jungle and disappeared.
“No good!” groaned Jack, as he relinquished the pursuit and turned back. “There's nothing for it but to fight. I say, Don, what's up?”
Don lay sprawling in the sand.
“Tripped over that lazy beast,” said Don, picking himself up and aiming a kick at an enormous turtle which was already heading for the water.
“Him bery nice soup making, sar!” cried Spottie, rubbing his brown hands unctuously. But just then a fierce tumult of voices, rolling down from the jungle path, put other thoughts than soup into Spottie's pate.
“The rope! Fetch the rope, Spottie!” cried Jack, throwing himself on the turtle's back.