A single word from Klinger, and those three men might never return to Ukula.
Klinger saw at once the great danger in which the Americans had put themselves. He called loudly, “Fanua, Fanua.”
His native wife appeared, smiling and bowing gracefully. He spoke to her in English, a language which Kataafa did not understand. “Go to those papalangi,” he ordered huskily. “Tell them if they don’t ride back, away from Saluafata, at once, I cannot be responsible for their lives.” Fanua obeyed without question. Klinger watched her reach their side and saw them stop and turn their horses’ heads—then, apparently, calmly consider the message brought them. Many warriors had gathered; their attitude seemed to Klinger to be growing every minute more hostile toward the intruders.
CHAPTER XII
SMUGGLED ARMS
As the Americans had ridden their ponies through the throngs of natives in the street of the town of Saluafata, the cheery “Talofa, Alii” had been conspicuous by its absence. Instead Phil’s interested glance was met upon all sides by haughty and sullen stares from the dark-eyed natives.
“They’re up to some mischief,” O’Neil whispered, “and they don’t like our being here. That’s sure.”
The road or street led now along the sea beach. The schooner “Talofa” lay anchored a few hundred yards distant. Nearly a dozen long narrow-flanked war canoes hovered near or alongside.
“Guns,” Sydney exclaimed excitedly. “Look, they are being passed down by hand into those boats alongside.” One very large canoe manned by nearly forty naked savages had just shoved off from the schooner. Its crew was singing a stirring song, keeping perfect time with their paddles as they propelled the canoe slowly down the beach.
“They’ve blackened their faces,” O’Neil declared anxiously. “You know what that means?”
Phil nodded, his heart beating rapidly, and a thrill passed through him at the thought. To blacken the face was a declaration of war.