A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He recalled Mildred’s determination to follow that green arrow trail. Had she followed it too far? Had the spies captured her? Was she a prisoner? And had she attempted to get off a message on the green arrow, only to be interrupted? Or perhaps even—
“I might be wrong,” he told himself. But he dared not hope.
Again there were the drums. This time a drum close at hand, on shore, thundered out. Then, from far away in the jungle came an answer, another, and yet another. It was ghostly, romantic, thrilling. Johnny’s hair fairly stood on end. But what did it mean?
He caught the sound of soft footfalls. Instantly he was on his feet, all attention.
“Oh!” he exclaimed softly. “It is you, Samatan.”
“Yes. The drums! They speak!” murmured Samatan. “Something—it is very bad.” His voice was low-pitched, tense.
“What do they say?” Johnny asked in a whisper.
“That something very wrong. This what drums say!” The old man’s voice was vibrant with emotion.
“They say Kennedy has had bad done him! Natives must come. All who love Kennedy must come. And all natives love Kennedy! All night they must come. In morning they march—perhaps they fight! Much fight for Kennedy! Maybe much die!” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” Johnny choked. “Something terrible has happened. We must go, Samatan!”