“I—I win?” Johnny did not understand.
“You get the ‘Rope of Gold’. Explain later. That is, unless those rascals win. They are after Curlie. They were staging a revolution. Curlie blew up their ship. Good thing. Nothing better ever happened. We’ll stand by him. But what’s there to do? We haven’t weapons—just a few machetes, that’s all. Besides, these bronze people are no fighters; never were.”
He turned and was gone.
Mechanically Johnny moved to a place where he was quite hidden by darkness but where he could witness the action of the mob without and the giant within.
The natives were afraid, that was certain; afraid of this giant.
“Probably think he is the ghost of Christophe. Singing, dancing and drumming to drive him away. Well, if I’m any judge, he won’t drive. But will they grow bolder? That’s the question.”
All the while the giant continued to dance and grimace, swing his arms and crack his knuckles while the angry mob, thirsting for revenge, pressed closer, ever closer to their goal.
At last, as Johnny stood there in the shadows breathless, watching, he saw a short, broad black man with a full neck and an exceedingly evil face dart suddenly forward.
At once Johnny’s brain was in a whirl. These men were superstitious, he knew that. All blacks are. Would this man dare attack this mysterious monster?
“If he dares,” he said aloud, “we are lost.”