This plan Curlie vetoed. He had been out prowling around late at night and was hungry. Besides, being something of a soldier of fortune, who had been lost many times himself, he did not share the French boy’s apprehension.
“He’ll show up,” he said, digging in his pack for a match to light the fire. “Pompee won’t be any good without his morning cup of coffee; for that matter, neither will I.”
A half hour later, having eaten a hasty breakfast of cassava bread, coffee and mangoes, Dorn struck away across the court that led to the main stairway of the Citadel.
His heart was heavy for he had taken a great liking to the frank, free and kindly American boy, Johnny Thompson. He knew, too, what a dangerous thing it is to be lost in a jungle.
With his eyes and ears open, he wandered among the ruins. Up a stair here, down one there, peering here, there, everywhere he went. Always hoping to catch sight of Johnny’s sturdy figure yet always disappointed, he spent the whole bright tropical morning hunting.
At times he came upon Curlie Carson or Pompee. They, too, were searching. Curlie was taking the affair seriously at last.
“If we don’t find him trapped somewhere in the Citadel,” he said to Dorn, “we’ll have to take to the jungle trails. He may have been spirited away.”
“Spirited away?” The French boy’s tone showed surprise.
“Yes, by the natives. There’s been a lot of queer doings around this mossy old pile of stone. Remember that native who took the trouble to hang a ladder before my window and look in?”
“Yes.”