In the meantime Curlie Carson was returning over a jungle path in the night. The objects he carried slung over his back would have caused Johnny Thompson to stare in amazement. They were two native drums. One was small but the other was an exact duplicate of the one that had won for Johnny a sore head and had endangered his life.
“It’s all done with the aid of batteries,” Curlie repeated to himself as he passed from a moonlit spot into the shadows. “But the drums will help. They will help a lot.” He let forth a low deep chuckle that said volumes.
“Won’t Johnny and Dorn be surprised!” He chuckled again.
* * * * * * * *
After stirring uneasily in his blankets, Dorn at last awoke. It was late in the night, he knew, because the moon was hanging low. He put out a hand to the spot where Johnny should have been sleeping. It was empty. He was a little startled at this. He was more surprised and disturbed a moment later as a dull tum-tum came to him.
“Native drums,” he whispered to himself. Yet he could not be sure.
Oddly enough, the sound appeared to come from within the fort itself, in the direction of Curlie’s improvised laboratory.
As the boy propped himself up for a look at the fort, he fancied he caught a flash of red light. Yes, there it was again, this time it was yellow. It appeared to come from a great crack in the wall. This crack, he suddenly recalled, ran a zig-zagging course down the right side of Curlie’s laboratory.
“Strange he’d work so late,” he thought.
Then of a sudden, this time louder, more distinct, came the boom of a drum.