The village they stopped at that evening resembled in almost every respect the one in which the noon-day halt had been made. There were the same huts, the same swarming pigs and chickens, and the same fuzzy-headed Papuans, many of them returning from the fields with corn and yams.
The proprietor of the “hotel,” which had no more pretensions to the name than the other hostelry, proved to be a Portuguese half-caste, lacking one eye, and sporting a pair of huge brass ear-rings. His wife was a giant negress. However, they welcomed the party warmly, as they had good reason to do, not having had any guests for some time, and pigs and fowls were at once killed for supper, everything in such places being ordered “on the hoof,” so to speak. Mr. Jukes delighted his native followers by ordering an elaborate meal for them also, in celebration of the fact that on the morrow they would leave “civilization” behind them.
Jack, at Mr. Jukes’ request, set up his wireless plant, stringing the aerials from a tall tree up which one of the natives swarmed like a monkey to make the long wires fast. As he worked, he and Billy talked.
“I guess we’ll sleep with one eye open to-night,” said Jack in an undertone, for they were surrounded by a curious crowd watching the white boy “make conjure medicine.”
“Yes, those hotel people are a crafty-looking couple,” rejoined Billy, “and in a country like this it’s a good thing to regard everybody with suspicion till you find them all right.”
Muldoon sauntered up to them as they chatted and worked and had his word to put in too.
“Begorrah, that Portugee don’t look like no angel,” he said, “and his wife looks like the ould Nick himsilf.”
“Just what we were talking about, Muldoon,” said Jack. “It will be a good thing if we keep our eyes and ears open.”
It was some time before Jack got a reply, but at last he received Thurman’s answering call.