Roger, in spite of his misgivings, thought hard.
“Come here, Tip.” Together, conferring, they unpacked equipment.
As the silent, but menacing horsemen deployed and surrounded the camp, the youth drew on, hastily, heavy rubber gloves.
Tip, not too sure that he ought to be so far from his charge, obeyed stern orders to carry out Roger’s instructions, and in the tent, sat by the handle of the generator. The small electricity-producing unit, much more powerful, though no heavier than an automobile battery-generator, had its handle and flywheel geared at a high ratio, so that moderate turning rate gave the armature its correct impetus for best results.
From it, unseen in the darkness that came on, a wire ran to a spot where Roger crouched, apparently busy with cooking utensils.
The bandits dismounted, and the group advanced, completely surrounding the white men, who wore the native coats of rough texture but who did not attempt to disguise their race.
The natives of the camp were evidently expecting the raid, and Roger was sure that either the chief guide or an aide had betrayed them.
It was too late to avoid the encounter and recriminations were not wise.
“You give all money,” the interpreter told Doctor Ryder as the leader of their adversaries spoke in guttural phrases.
“Tell him we are scientists, going to study the great rocks. Tell him that we have no money, and bid him go, before we ask our young magician, who is close in the councils of the Gods, to smite them.”