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Johnny was never to forget that silent march up the tropical island trail. Before him glided a native guide. Behind him, taking each steep ascent with the quiet, steady breathing of a boy, came the giant Kennedy.
After these marched a silent throng. Their faces and machetes shining in the morning sun, they were a band of simple, honest natives, in whose midst Kennedy long had stood out as king.
A monkey chattered from a tree, but no rifle was aimed at him. A parrot screamed, and over in a narrow ravine, a drove of wild pigs scampered unmolested over the dry moss of the jungle.
“We’re seeking bigger game, today,” the boy thought, grimly.
Finally they arrived at a point not far distant from the turn, beyond which lay the castle. Kennedy held up a hand, and the men gathered silently about him. In low tones he gave them final instructions.
There were, he said, three trails to the ancient castle. They would divide into three groups. John Puleet, a stalwart native, with his followers, would circle the hill to the right. Teratella, another burly leader of the islanders, would go to the left with his men. Time would be given them to take their positions. When this had been done, a “wild parrot” would scream from the right, another from the left—and they would all move forward.
“We’ll take the trail straight ahead, with old Samatan,” he said to Johnny. “It’s the toughest of them all, if we are attacked.”
“O.K.” Johnny murmured, gripping his light hunting rifle.
Silently, one by one, a hundred men crept into the brush. After that, save for the chirp of some small bird and the faint sound of a dashing stream, all was silent. It was, Johnny thought, the dead silence that comes before a storm.