At a short distance from the shore was a large clearing, temporary huts made of branches and leaves of palm trees being erected in a vast double circle. Here a number of natives were busy baking pigs and fowls, while there was an abundance of yams and cocoanuts.
"They are very improvident with their supplies," remarked Andy. "They evidently seem as if they are certain of returning to the land of plenty."
"Yes," replied his father, who had taken an early opportunity of examining the roasted pigs to make sure they were pigs. "We may as well set-to and enjoy their hospitality; now, keep close together and see that your pistols are easy to draw."
The chiefs, each distinguishable by his huge mop of greased and frizzed hair, had squatted in a semicircle, and no sooner had the guests seated themselves than there was a terrific scramble on the part of the native chiefs to help themselves.
"We must forget for the moment that we are civilised and follow their example," remarked Mr. McKay, seizing a bit of pork in his fingers.
His companions did likewise, and notwithstanding the absence of knives and forks they managed to eat and enjoy their share of the feast.
This done, there was a war-dance performed by the young men of the tribe, the warriors brandishing their clubs with such energy that it seemed wonderful that no one was hurt.
The natives did not appear to use their heavy clubs for the purpose of knocking their imaginary adversaries over the head; instead, they utilised the upward swing of their arms, lunging with the weapon on its upward stroke.
Andy particularly noticed this, and remarked it to his father.
"Yes," was the reply. "It's a favourite 'knock-out' blow with these fellows. I've seen them at it in actual combat. The idea is to get underneath their antagonist's guard, and strike him on the chin with the upward sweep of the club, and knock him senseless. Afterwards the winning side secure those who are only stunned and——"