Tom and Cliff did so. At once they saw the reason Nick meant.
Waiting just outside the hut at one end were a dozen men armed with bows—and probably with the deadly poisoned arrows.
At another point was another cluster of men, whose arms were not in evidence; yet they seemed to preserve orderly positions and to be awaiting some signal.
“Good grief!” Nicky said. “We are in a tight corner and no mistake!”
“Yes,” said Tom. “But I think we will get out all right. Margery doesn’t seem to be worried.”
“Where in the world do you suppose Henry Morgan got hold of a suitcase type moving picture machine?” asked Cliff, nodding toward the apparatus that Henry and Mort were fussing over on the ground.
“Henry,” said Cliff, “where did you get that?”
“On the sloop,” Henry answered, fumbling with the lamp, which was of the calcium carbide, and water, type. He did not seem to know much about it, although Mort, who knew less, was fussing and puffing on his fat knees and giving a multitude of instructions, none of which seemed to help. “We thought the Indians would be puzzled about it,” Henry added. “We borrowed it. Do you fellows know anything about it?”
“Work your own magic!” said Nicky, rather maliciously. He could not resist the impulse to dig back at Henry for all the meanness the latter had shown.
“You’ll be sorry for that!” said Mort shortly.