“That does pretty nearly describe it for a fact,” agreed Tom. As he spoke, both boys straightened up from their recumbent position. Hardly had they done so and were scrambling to their feet when there came a sudden, sharp crackling of the brush higher up the stream. Before they had time to recover from their surprise, or to even hazard a guess at what the noise might mean, the brush parted and a figure stepped forth.
Both boys uttered a cry of amazement as their eyes fell on the newcomer. He was a Chinaman—tall, grave, and with a face like a parchment mask.
As Fu saw him, he fell on his face and began muttering incoherent noises like those he had given vent to when he cast himself on the deck of the sloop the night before.
The newcomer was the first to speak. He did so in a deep, sonorous voice very unlike the squeaky, jerky mode of utterance of Fu.
“White boys come with me,” he said, in a tone that indicated that he did not expect to be disobeyed.
“Well, of all the nerve,” breathed the astonished Jack to himself. But before he could speak a word aloud, Tom spoke up:
“We are on our way to a ranch,” he said, “and must reach there by sundown. We’ll have to hurry on.”
No change of expression crossed that yellow mask, but the tall Chinaman’s hand slipped into his blouse sleeve, which was loose and flowing. It was done so rapidly that before the boys had fairly noticed the movement a revolver was pointing at them; the sunlight that struck down through the dark-topped pines glinted ominously on its blued barrel.
The Chinaman, in the same level, monotonous voice, repeated his command:
“White boys come with me.”