"Don't you worry," spoke up Fred. "The other fellows aren't going to leave and that's the worst of it. What shall we do?"
"We shan't do anything until we have to," said Grant. "It will be money in our pockets to keep silent in seven languages."
"There they are now!" exclaimed Fred in a low voice as the two white men approached the camping place.
"We're hungry," explained the man with the scar. "Give us something to eat."
"You haven't eaten all there was in that pack already, have you?" demanded Fred.
"What are you talking about? What pack do you mean? We haven't got any pack," replied the visitor.
"You haven't now. What did you do with it?"
"You'll have to explain what you mean. You 're talking in riddles, as the poet says," sneered the stranger. "All we want is something to eat and I'm thinking you'll cook it for us pretty quick."
"I understand it's the law of the desert," spoke up Grant, "that any one who comes into your camp has to be fed."
"Sure it is," said the man glibly.