“Strange fellow,” said Dorn.
“Some day mebby Papa Lou,” said old Pompee, with a shake of his wise old head. “Plenty understand that one boy.”
A Papa Lou is a native witch doctor of Haiti, a priest of the Voodoo cult. Dorn thought it very improbable that Curlie, or, for that matter, any white boy, would turn into a Papa Lou. However, realizing the futility of arguing with an old man, he kept silent.
With his back against a tree, with the moon gilding the topmost ridge of the ancient fortress, the French boy sat wondering in a troubled sort of way what had become of his good friend Johnny Thompson. Beyond the discovery of the khaki handkerchief at the bottom of the pitfall, they had found no trace of him.
“He can’t have gone away of his own accord,” he assured himself. “He is too honorable for that. He—”
His reflections were broken short off by the cry of old Pompee:
“See, Monsieur. Only look! Look!”
Dorn did look and what he saw made his blood run cold.
* * * * * * * *
What Dorn saw had nothing to do with Johnny Thompson. For all that Johnny was having his share of adventure. We left him, as you will know, hiding away with his captors in a secluded tropical glade. The day was hot. He had traveled far. His day dreams may have blended with real dreams. Be that as it may, he was suddenly startled into complete consciousness by a series of shrill cries and, as he sprang to his feet, found himself in complete possession of the field. Every black had fled.