“Just what you wanted.”
“Just that—” Pant nodded once more.
At that instant, through the half open window there came the high shrill note of a whistle—just such a night call as Johnny had once heard in the heart of a jungle at midnight.
Pant sprang to his feet. He went gliding to a window. There, crouching low, he peered through a crack beneath the drawn shade out into the night. He remained thus while the clock ticked off three full minutes, then, without a word of explanation, resumed his place by the stove.
“You see,” he went on exactly where he had left off, “he had taken that girl into the cave. He was armed, I was not. I could see in the dark, he could not. But probably he had matches. Most likely he’d make a fire. I had to have that girl back for my picture there at the edge of the jungle. Besides—” Pant paused to stare at the floor, “I don’t like slavery. Do you?”
“No one does, Pant, at least no one but those who keep slaves or make a business of selling them.”
“That’s just it!” Pant agreed. “So of course I had to rescue that girl. Don’t get me wrong, Johnny. I’m no romancer. Not a bit of it. But I had to get that girl.”
“For your picture.”
“For my picture.
“He fell asleep—that man. I crept into the cave. The girl was there unharmed. Terribly frightened, of course. Bound hand and foot. I should have killed him, that slave-snatching son of Ali. But to try that would have been dangerous. Besides I hate corpses. Don’t you, Johnny? Can’t seem to forget ’em ever. Remember that man in the mine back there in Russia?”