“How many of the natives do you reckon there are?” asked Frank.
“At least several thousand.”
The young inventor was silent. He realized that there was logic in Captain Hardy’s words.
But he was not to be defeated.
“Barney,” he said, “go down and fetch up those long, black boxes in the forward cabin.”
“All roight, sor!”
The Celt disappeared at once.
When he returned he had two of the boxes on his shoulder. They were marked in plain black letters:
“Plain Armor.”
“Armor!” exclaimed Captain Hardy. “Is that what you have there, Mr. Reade?”