“But those men are savages!”
“Who knows? What’s a savage anyway,” Sparky’s voice sounded strange. “Every man is a human being. Those are men. Brazil is our ally at war and this is Brazil. When men come to you singing and waving torches, you just must meet them half way.”
By this time the dugout canoes were pulling up to the shore. The chant had ceased. In its place was only the murmur of voices. The torches still flamed.
Soon a procession came moving like a great, twisting, glowing serpent toward the campfire.
“Sparky!” Mary crowded close. “It’s too much. I can’t stand it!”
“Steady, girl!” Sparky’s voice was calm. His hands still gripped the tommy-gun.
As the procession came closer, they saw that most of the natives were all but naked, that some carried rifles and others spears and that they were led by a little man wearing striped trousers, a bright jacket and a sword. They did not pause until, as if in a high-school drill, they had ranged themselves in three semicircular rows before the fire. The little man stood at the center and three steps before them.
Mary tried to think what one swing of Sparky’s spitting tommy-gun would do to those rows and shuddered.
At last the little man spoke. His words came in slow, precise English.
“You are from the United States?”