"Well, they must take care of themselves, after this. Wait, we won't venture out yet, Mr. Daley. See, the fellows have got in trim to challenge us."
The four natives were now fully recovered from Daley's vigorous onslaught, it seemed.
They consulted and chattered, with frequent glances up at the enemy in possession of their stronghold.
One of them, evidently the leader of the group, worked himself up into a perfect fever of excitement and rage.
He approached nearer to the hut and shouted up a loud rigmarole to Dave and Daley. Suddenly wheeling around, he seized a dart from the heap on the litter.
So rapid and expert was he that even though the man dodged, it pierced Daley's cap through and through, showing its tremendous force by carrying the headgear fully twenty feet beyond the roof of the hut.
"Aha, two can play at that game, my friend," said Daley.
He seized a dart and hurled it back at the men. They laughed at him derisively as it struck the ground lightly and harmlessly beyond them. Even Dave had to smile at the sailor's sheer clumsiness.
Now the refugees had to duck down frequently, for all four of the natives began to shower the darts at them.
"I will try a hand," suggested Dave at last. "These on this little platform seem better made than the others. Hi-aa-ooa!" yelled Dave, standing up and poising the dart. He used the great war-cry of the tribe that Pat Stoodles had taught him in a moment of leisure.