“Shall Dave go, too?” Johnny asked.
“Plenty men on shore,” the old man waved an arm. “We go—tell Kennedy. That all. Dave? Better Dave stay.”
Half an hour later, Johnny wakened Dave to tell him what was going on. At first Dave was determined to go with them and have a hand in the affair. But after sober thought he decided it best to stay with the ship.
“The ship may be needed before this thing is over,” he said.
“Yes, it may,” Johnny agreed.
So, guided by native fires on the beach, Johnny and Samatan headed for shore.
Johnny was steeped in gloom as he pictured the golden-haired little beach-comber, the prisoner of unscrupulous spies.
“Nothing could be worse,” he groaned. “I should have warned her never to go, alone!”
But the moment their boat touched shore, Johnny’s mood changed quickly for the better. Seldom had he witnessed a more inspiring sight. In two short hours, more than a hundred, dark-faced, half-clad, natives had gathered at the call of their beloved Kennedy.
They were squatting around the fires, roasting small fish or strips of peccary meat and gulping cups of bitter, black coffee.