“Probably an innocent, kindly fellow,” Johnny told himself. “A little curious, that’s all. Most of the natives down here are like that.”
He did not feel too certain that this conclusion was correct. Nevertheless, up the rope ladder he went. And as he climbed, all unbeknown to him, his handkerchief fluttered from his pocket and dropped to the floor, there to remain as mute evidence that its owner had spent some time in that dungeon-like hole. Hours later, as you have seen, it was found by Pompee.
On clambering over the rough entrance to the pitfall he found himself surrounded by three stalwart brown men. These men were armed only with steel pointed spears and machetes, a thing Johnny marveled at. In the part of Haiti which he had visited, spears were scarce, bows and arrows practically unknown, and rifles very common.
As he thought this through he recalled his own bow and quiver of arrows. He had taken them with him on his lonely ramble; in fact he never left camp without them.
In his fall the bow had been knocked from his hand and the quiver, caught on a jagged bit of rock, had broken the light thong that held it to him.
“Where are they now?” he thought.
Ah, there they were!
With a sigh of relief he stooped to pick up his bow. He was not interrupted in this procedure, but as his right hand gripped the bow, one of the natives seized the quiver of razor-pointed arrows.
A thrill shot through him. His brow grew suddenly cold. “So that’s that,” he thought. “At least they don’t trust me too much.”
Turning about, the native who had seized the quiver started away, over a dim trail that did not lead toward the boy’s camp.