And then like a flash, to his mind came a suggestion of a possible way out. At once he began groping about on the ground and about the bark of the ancient tree that spread its protecting branches above them. It was a pine.
“Listen!” said Mona. “He is telling them that a boat load of arms and ammunition awaits them in Deception Bay. After the sacrifice—the rebellion.”
“We must get their goat,” whispered Curlie. He was smearing his arrowhead with a sticky substance. “Now!” he breathed. “Now!” He nocked his arrow. Then, with a whispered word he thrust something into Dot’s hand.
“It’s a match,” his whisper was low. “A sulphur match. Strike it and apply it to the head of my arrow.”
A small blue flame appeared. It wavered for a second at the arrow’s head. A larger golden flame replaced it.
The next instant that yellow flame shot forward to lodge in the bark of the pine tree to which the goat was tied. It was a perfect shot. The flames of burning rosin were licking their way toward the rope that held the goat captive.
Mona stared with all her eyes. The tiny golden flame had not been noted by the throng. They were too intent on their leader’s words.
The arrow and the pine rosin flame burned fiercely now. The rope was already singed. In ten seconds it would be burned away. The goat’s keen senses warned him of fire. He strained at his rope. One second, two, three, five, then with a wild blaa—he threw his full force into one terrific tug. It was enough. The rope gave way. He fell. Rolling over and over, he at last scrambled to his feet and with a final blaa dashed away into the darkness that was the jungle.
For a space of ten seconds there was silence. Then pandemonium broke loose.
“The goat! The goat! The black goat!” the natives screamed in a chorus.