Boom, boom, boom, came the sound of the huge drums of the natives, and mingling with their notes were shouts of revelry and shrieks of horror.
Bristol Bob, who had been sleeping, breathing hard and uneasily, began to move and toss on his bed, and presently sat up and stared around.
“What’s that?” he said. “The death-drums they’re beating for me?”
Tom at once went up to him and asked him how he was, and if he could do anything for him.
“Who are you?” said the sick man, whose eyes were now lighted up with the glare of fever. “Where do you come from?” And then, putting his hand under the pillow, he seized upon the bottle, and putting it to his lips took a long draught which almost emptied it.
“Ha!” he said, “I have it. Calla and Wanga are having a feast, and they’ll murder and eat me. Come; there’s not a moment to be lost.”
As he said this, Bristol Bob sprang from his couch; and seizing an axe which hung on the wall above it, he rushed out of his hut.
We followed him, wondering what he intended to do, and quickly as he went we were close on his heels, as he made his way to a small mound some thirty yards away. Here he stopped, and said,—
“Ha! ha! they shan’t eat me yet,” and then stooping down he began to clear away some leaves and wood, and disclosed a small door set in the ground and framed with stout posts. This he opened, and disclosed a passage dug in the ground, down which he went, followed by Bill and me; while Tom, who feared that Bristol Bob’s ravings might have some meaning, stopped behind to close and bar the door.
At the end of the passage we came into a chamber about twelve feet square every way, and here the wounded man struck a light with a flint and steel, and lighted a rude cocoanut-oil lamp.