We must have been halfway back to the Aurora Bird when Bartlet, sitting thoughtful in the stern, made the sign that brought us up all sharp.
"He's lying," he said quietly.
Jeckol's nerves jumped in protest.
"Eh—what? The black? He's only scared half to death. You wouldn't blame him for wanting to get out of this trap, would you? I do myself."
"He couldn't have lived overhead the whole nest o' them all this time without learning something," declared Bartlet.
"Why should he lie?"
But Peters had risen to snatch around that weazened face, blank as a mummy's—his own was alight. "By Joe, and a timely reminder. When you've got to ask why a Papuan nigger should lie you've gone pretty wide! As for scare—what d'y' suppose he must ha' seen to scare him so?"
Here he bent our monkey man over a thwart and introduced him affectionately to the Webley....
"You fella Kakwe," he said, "my survivin' jewel—I forgot your breed. I should ha' begun by bang'm black head b'long you. Now don't stop to gammon. Whatever you're holdin' back you show—savee? S'pose you no show'm straight, me finish 'long you close up altogether!"
And Kakwe showed. Dominated by superior wickedness, with all the black man's docility under the instant threat, he collapsed quite simply at the touch of steel, and he showed—the nook where a tiny, hidden creek flowed down among the mangroves, the winding course that led by the swamp's edge through dank and darksome channels to a trodden mud bank and Barange village itself, tucked away there like a huddle of giant hives in a back lot. This time we paused for no maneuvering. Even Jeckol grabbed a boat hook and we pushed through, eager to strike on a definite lead at last—