The Scarab stopped. It seemed as if it realized that here was an adversary not to be subdued in the ordinary way, and who, therefore, must be treated with respect.
Chick, Patsy, Jefferson Arnold, Adil, and Jai Singh were all watching eagerly from their hidden place of vantage, but none of them spoke. The situation was too tense for conversation.
For nearly half a minute the Golden Scarab and Nick Carter stood still, facing each other. Not a sound could be heard from all the multitude that crowded the seats, tier above tier, around the immense arena.
CHAPTER IX.
THE FATAL THRUST.
“Why didn’t he take his rifle?” whispered Patsy to Chick.
“Because a bullet would be of no use against that heavy shell,” replied Chick. “The only way to kill that animal would be to aim under it, and that could hardly be done while it is jumping around. You may be sure the chief believes a spear is the most handy tool for what he has to do, or he would not have taken Jai Singh’s from him.”
“My spear will do it, if anything can,” came in a gruff undertone from Jai Singh.
Chick had hit on the exact truth. Nick Carter had studied the strength of the glittering shell of the monster during the three previous contests—especially the third one, which was more nearly a fight than either of the others.
He had seen that heavy stones, thrown with great force, had not disturbed the Scarab in the least, even when they struck it fairly and squarely.