“Hullo, there’s a picnic party!” cried Herc, as he saw the group, the women of which were begarlanded with flowers after the pretty custom of the South Seas.
Ned had not time to reply before a yell and whoop from Herc cut him short.
“Oh, glory! Look at that, will you!”
Blue Lightning had broken loose from Herc’s grip, which had relaxed as he gazed on the Arcadian scene. With a grunt and a jump the goat, trailing several yards of rope behind him, dashed straight down on the unconscious diners. Maybe the sight of food had excited his appetite, or maybe he was actuated just by pure goatishness. Anyhow, like a torpedo-boat bearing down on a squadron, he dashed at the group below.
“Hey! Wow! Look out! Jump! Scat! Vamoose! Beat it!” howled Herc.
But no attention was paid to him. In another instant pandemonium burst into that peaceful scene. Herc had thrown himself off his pony and managed to grab the end of the rope, but the impetus of Blue Lightning’s rush had jerked him off his feet. He rolled down the embankment, landing with a crash in the midst of the luncheon party at just about the same instant that the Manhattan’s mascot made his presence known by butting a dignified old gentleman into a big bowl of the soft sticky poi.
The islanders yelled in terror at the sudden apparition, Herc shouted as he went rolling and crashing among a variety of dishes, and above them Ned and the guide shouted advice and directions. Recovering from their first surprise, the islanders massed angrily and made a concerted rush for Herc. Some of them wielded clubs and stones.
“It’s all a mistake. Don’t hit me. I’ll make it all right!” cried the Dreadnought Boy, trying to brush the sticky remnants of poi and custard-apples from his uniform.
The islanders buzzed like a hive of angry bees. They did not understand him. All they knew was that a peaceful meal had been rudely interrupted by a red-headed sailor and a goat with a butt like an eight-inch shell.
“See here——” shouted Herc.