“They done lighting um for company, maybe,” suggested Puggles. “Plenty people going feast, black man 'fraid got, making fire keep tiger-witch off.”
“So much the better for us,” said his master; “especially if everybody's at the town except the fellows in charge of Jack. But shut up, Pug; it won't do to risk their overhearing our palaver.” With stealthy steps they advanced, pausing often to listen, until they gained the deeper shade of the trees close under the rear of the huts. Leaving the black boy here, Don skirted the nearer row of cabins and took a cautious view of the street.
The huts stood in two irregular rows, one facing the other, and midway down the open space or street between was a smouldering fire of brushwood, about which, in listless, drowsy attitudes, there lolled a group of perhaps twenty natives. Save for these the place, so far as he could make out, was quite deserted. The doors of the huts were closed, and no glimmer of lamp or fire shone through them to indicate that any occupants were within. A little to one side of the fire the light fell upon an object at sight of which Don started violently. It was the stolen keg of powder. Jack could not be far off, then!
Quitting the spot as noiselessly as he had approached it, he made his way back to the rear of the huts, and with the assistance of Puggles, adjusted the limp tigers pelt upon his back, shoulders, and head. Next he gave the black boy his orders. He was to lie close until the natives about the fire took to flight—which, if they fled at all, would, in the ordinary course of events, be in the direction of the other extremity of the street—when he was to join his master in searching the huts.
All was now in readiness, and Don, gripping the defunct tiger's ears at either side of his head to hold the skin in position, once more skirted the row of huts, Puggles in close attendance. His former post of observation gained, he went down upon all-fours, and when Puggles had readjusted the skin to his satisfaction, in this attitude he boldly advanced into the street.
The distance to be traversed in order to reach the group about the fire was not less than fifty yards. He had covered a third of the ground unobserved, when one of the natives rose to his feet and threw a fresh bundle of faggots on the smouldering embers. Fanned by the breeze, the fire blazed up fiercely, illuminating the street from end to end. The tiger-witch uttered a terrific roar.
When this sound fell upon the ears of the native, he wheeled and peered fearfully into the semi-darkness in which Don's end of the street lay. A second roar brought a second native to his feet. He was followed by another and another, till all were on the alert. The witch-tiger was now in full view.
For a little while the group about the fire hesitated. Should they stand their ground or decamp? As the intruder advanced, and the ruddy firelight threw its gruesome outlines into stronger relief, they suddenly perceived what manner of apparition this was that had stolen up an them out of the darkness. To them the tiger-witch, with its swift, silent visitations of death, had doubtless long been a dread reality. The island held but one tiger—and here it was! With frantic outcries they turned and fled pell-mell down the village street.
This was just what Don desired—what he had calculated upon. Until the heels of the hindermost had quite disappeared in the darkness, he sustained his rôle. Thus far the ruse had succeeded admirably. But the real business of the night had as yet only begun. Shaking the clammy skin from off his back, he rose to his feet and made a dash for the door of the nearest hut. Just as he reached it, Puggles, who had watched the rout of the natives with shaking sides, came trotting up.
“Look alive, Pug!” cried his master, bursting in the frail door with a crash. “Search the huts on the left, while I take these on the right. Look alive, I say—they may come back at any minute.”