Four minutes—five—six—seven! When had he started this slouching around to get exercise? Had it been yesterday, or last week, or last year? He didn’t dare look at Freddy for fear the guards would see his look and take it for some kind of a signal. It was only seven minutes. Only seven? That was all the minutes there were in the world, wasn’t it?
Eight minutes—nine! Praise be to Allah! The guards were relaxing a little. One of them had shifted his feet to a more comfortable stance. And his sub-machine gun was pointing a little more toward the ground. The other guard, too, was seemingly getting just a little bored with the prisoner parade. He let go of his gun with one hand to slap at a fly buzzing around his face. It was making him wink for the first time.
Ten minutes—eleven! Dave saw Freddy close to one of the windows—real close. He took a quick side step that took him to within two feet of his window. He shot a quick glance at the two guards—and sneezed!
In the next couple of seconds a hundred different things seemed to happen at the same time. His whole body seemed to explode like many firecrackers as his coiled spring muscles let go, and his feet left the floor and he dived headlong through the window. He misjudged the opening by a hair and felt sharp pain as his shoulder cracked against the jamb. He caught a flash glimpse of Freddy going out the other window like a flying fish above the crest of a wave. Then there was a roaring blast of noise in back of him. It was as though the three-sided hut were crashing down about his ears. And his head was suddenly filled with the whistle and zinging of many unseen bullets. Slivers of wood flew past him, and then—and then he was landing like a cat on all fours on the ground below the window, and heavy tropical growth was clutching out at him.
For a brief instant there was no air in his lungs, and there were dancing lights before his eyes. Then somebody grabbed his arm. It was Freddy Farmer, and the English youth’s voice was in his ears.
“Good luck, old man! I’ll take care of the blighters!”
And in the next flash second Freddy Farmer was gone. He wasn’t there any more. There was just heavy tangy-smelling tropical island undergrowth. And from a good distance away came the calling voice.
“Over here, Dave! Run! There’s a path...!”
The last was drowned out by the thunderous roar of gunfire—gunfire that seemed to come right out of the top of Dave’s head!