"What the devil is he driving at?" Carver growled. The circumlocution of the south-sea islander was a perennial mystery to him.
"Paddy is coming," Peter Gross cried. "Now get your breath, Inchi, and tell us where he is."
His scant vocabulary exhausted, Inchi broke into a torrent of Dyak. By requiring the lad to repeat several times, Peter Gross finally understood his message.
"Paddy, Koyala, and some of Koyala's Dyaks are coming along the mountain trail," he announced. "They will be here in an hour. She sent a runner ahead to let us know, but the runner twisted an ankle. Inchi found him and got the message."
There was a wild cheer as Paddy, dusty and matted with perspiration, several Dyaks, and Koyala emerged from the banyan-grove and crossed the plain. Discipline was forgotten as the entire command crowded around the lad.
"I shot two Chinamans for you," Vander Esse announced. "An' now daat vas all unnecessary."
"Ye can't keep a rid-head bottled up," Larry Malone, another member of the company, shouted exultingly.
"Aye ban tank we joost get it nice quiet van you come back again," Anderson remarked in mock melancholy. The others hooted him down.
Koyala stood apart from the crowd with her Dyaks and looked on. Glancing upward, Peter Gross noticed her, noticed, too, the childishly wistful look upon her face. He instantly guessed the reason—she felt herself apart from these people of his, unable to share their intimacy. Remorse smote him. She, to whom all their success was due, and who now rendered this crowning service, deserved better treatment. He hastened toward her.
"Koyala," he said, his voice vibrant with the gratitude he felt, "how can we repay you?"