“There’s the ‘Talofa,’” Sydney cried joyfully. They searched the ocean for the steam launch, but the land and trees shut out the view to the westward.
“Hark!” O’Neil exclaimed. They listened. From below them the faint music of singing came up to them. “There’s where the people are, down there,” he added.
“War canoes,” O’Neil said pointing. The beach was hidden by the foliage, but as O’Neil spoke several large canoes had suddenly appeared, being propelled swiftly alongside the anchored schooner.
Phil urged his horse onward.
“Excuse me, sir,” O’Neil exclaimed nervously. “Those glasses you have there,” indicating a pair of ship’s binoculars Phil wore slung over his shoulders, “will give us all the information we want without going any further into the lion’s mouth.”
Phil gazed upon the sailor in surprise.
“Do you think there is danger in riding down there?” he asked.
O’Neil hesitated. “That depends,” he answered thoughtfully.
“Upon what?” Sydney insisted.
“Upon what the white men who are fixing this show intend doing,” the sailor said.