"Intchi!"
The significance of the word was plain. Feeling very small, indeed, the chums turned and retraced their steps, speculating when they arrived at their quarters what would be their punishment in the morning.
Days passed, but seemingly no notice was taken of the attempt to break out. Nevertheless, the mere fact of having been caught red-handed acted as a deterrent to a further effort in that direction. Had they been kicked or beaten they would not have been daunted, but they had a wholesome dread of being ridiculed.
After a while Desmond hit upon another plan. Tearing leaves from his pocketbook, he wrote several notes to Colonel Narfield, wrapping each paper round a stone. On the outside he wrote the address, and also drew a rough sketch of the colonel as he usually appeared out of doors, and also a drawing of Kilembonga. This was with the idea of conveying the name and address to any fairly intelligent native who might pick up the little packages.
During the night the lads hurled the weighted papers far over the cliff, hoping that they might fall into the hands of anyone except a Makoh'lenga, since the territory of this mysterious tribe was bounded by the lofty wall of rock.
The following evening, after the chums had been for a walk round the village, the papers were restored to them. Every one had been picked up, neatly smoothed out and folded, and left on the table with the evening meal.
"Stumped, middle wicket!" exclaimed Tiny ruefully. "Here we are, and here we remain, as far as I can see."
"They've got us properly set," agreed Colin. "They know it, otherwise they wouldn't give so much rope. We might try heliographing."
"They'd spot that right away," demurred Tiny.
"Possibly, but they might think we were doing some sort of rite, and let us carry on," replied Sinclair. He pointed to a plate of burnished silver hanging on one of the walls. "That thing will do the trick, I fancy. We'll have a shot at it, any old way."