“What’s that?”
“Try out that radio we found on the Jap raft.”
“I cranked it for an hour last night.” Jack’s interest was slight. “Not a peep out of it. But go ahead, try it.”
“Sure I’ll try it.” Stew walked away. “Give my regards to that head-hunter’s queen,” he added, with a low laugh. “She’s a regular pin-up girl, don’t you think? Tell her to put a ring in her nose and I’ll take her picture.”
Jack joined in the laugh. Then, after tucking his violin under his arm, he trudged away into the dark forest and over the trail leading to the village.
Guided by his pinpoint flashlight he followed the leafy trail, where his steps made no sound, and listened to the croak of a great frog that seemed to say, “Why? Why?” He dropped down into a valley, where some startled porkers went snorting away, then climbed again to cross the ridge and come down on the other side.
“Spooky business, following these trails at night,” he told himself. “Anything might happen.”
When he found himself close to the native village, he went on tiptoe until the light of their campfire, burned down to a dull glow, was practically in his eyes.
No feast now. It was too late for that. The natives were seated in a half circle. Close by the fire sat a stout young hunter. His fine brown face, with its gleaming white teeth, was a study. He was smiling broadly as jokes were passed back and forth. Before him lay a freshly killed pig. He had returned late from the hunt, no doubt, and was recounting his adventures. The others with one exception appeared happy. The tall, slim girl sat by herself. On her face was a look of loneliness, perhaps of sadness. The people were talking in their strange native tongue. The girl did not speak at all.
Then Jack did something that even to him seemed strange. Slipping silently through the brush, he came close to the girl and, more than half in shadow, unnoticed, took a seat beside her.