“Make him howl. There’s no time for explaining.”
“Be ready to fly,” Curlie added. “Follow me. I know a secret way down the mountain.”
With trembling fingers the girl drew a small harmonica from her pocket. Then she touched the dog who had all this time stood tense at her side.
“Now, Leo, old boy,” she whispered hoarsely as the throb of the drum rose louder and a chanted song rose and fell like the wild waves of the sea. “Now Leo, do your bit.”
She put the tiny musical instrument to her lips and sent forth a piercing discordant screech.
The next instant Leo stood on his haunches and pointing his nose to the stars let out such a mournful wail as only a tropical dog knows.
The effect was electrical. With a loud bam, the drum beats ceased. The song broke off short. For ten seconds silence, deep and ominous, hung over the jungle. Then again came that unearthly screech and the dog’s answering wail.
This last was too much. Came the sound of rushing through the brush, the bleating of a black goat being dragged over the rough trail by his masters. All this grew indistinct in the night. Then again silence.
“There won’t be any rebellion now,” said Curlie. “At least not right away. They thought it was the Loupe Garoe. That is a bad sign.”
“The Loupe Garoe?” said the girl.