“We’ll get him out of it,” repeated Nick. “But we must have just a little patience. The game of the snake charmer is to keep him in suspense for an hour or so, and then probably let him go—unless there is some object in keeping him that we do not see.”
“That’s just it,” quickly replied Arnold. “There may be a lot of rascals with this blackguard who is doing all the mischief. We don’t know who may be hiding behind those trees.”
“That’s so,” assented Nick Carter. “But we must wait and see. We may get a clew to the whereabouts of your son right here, if we don’t spoil it by rushing things. I could pick that snake off with my rifle, without touching the man. But it wouldn’t be safe, because the snake might bite him in its death struggle.”
This was obvious, and Jefferson Arnold nodded assent.
“Listen!” he whispered nervously. “What did I tell you? There are a lot of people among the trees.”
Proof of this was furnished by the sudden rising of a weird, not unmusical, dirgelike chant from the blackness surrounding the clearing.
The fakir straightened up to his full height again—a favorite gesture of his, it seemed—and answered the chorus with a few notes on his pipe.
Then he settled himself down to play for the snakes. Striking a plaintive minor, he brought forth more music out of the reed than either Nick Carter or any of his companions had supposed was in it. The result was that all the snakes began to move in time to the notes.
“I wish I could shoot that rascal down,” muttered Jefferson Arnold. “I feel that I owe it to poor Adil, anyhow.”
“Not yet,” whispered Nick Carter. “When we do strike, we want it to be of real effect.”