The fire, fortunately, had gained so little headway that a few
bucketfuls of water sufficed to put the _Jolly Tar_ cut of danger. Then
the captain stumped up to Don, where he sat disconsolate on the cutter's
gun'le, and laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder.
“Cheer up, my hearty! They warmints ain't done for Master Jack yet,
not by a long chalk, says I. Flush my scuppers, lad!” he roared in
stentorian tones, as he turned the light of the lantern upon the pool of
blood, “this 'ere sanguinary gore as dyes the deck bain't his'n at all.
It's the blood o' some native warmint, what he's gone an' let daylight
into, d'ye mind me, an' here's the musket as done the trick.”
“Then you think he's not--not dead?” asked Don, steadying his voice with
an effort.
“Dead? Not him! Alive he is, and alive he remains,” cried the old
sailor. “An' why so? you naterally axes. To begin with, as the shark
says when he nipped the seaman's leg off, because the keg o' powder's
gone. Spurts, the warmints thinks to theirselves, an' so they makes
away with _it._ Secondly”--and here the old sailor's voice grew
husky--“because that 'ere imp of a Besin's gone. 'I'll stand hard by
Master Jack,' says he, so off _he_ goes. Sharks an' sea-sarpents, lad,
can't ye see as the lubbers have only gone an' took Master Jack in tow?”
“But I can't understand,” persisted Don, “why they should do it.”
“Ransom, lad, that's what the lubbers is arter. Master Jack's life's
worth a sight more'n a bag o' pearls, an' well they knows it.
“Avast there, an' don't be a milksop so soft,
To be taken for trifles aback;
There's a Providence, lad, as sits up aloft
To watch for the life of poor Jack.”
Trolling out this sailorly reproof of Don's fears, the captain stretched
himself in the bottom of the boat, and drawing a tai paulin over his
nose, was soon sleeping off the effects of his recent exertions ashore.
But upon Don's heart his chum's fate lay like a leaden weight. He could
not rest.
“Good-bye, old fellow, till I see you again.” These, Jack's last
careless words, repeated themselves in every me urnful sigh of the
night-wind; and as he lay, hour after hour, watching the stars climb the
heavens; he wondered, with a keen pain at his heart, when that “again”
was to be.
As the night wore on, however, he found more and more comfort in the
old sailor's words. It was so much easier to believe that Jack had been
kidnapped than to believe him dead. This view of his disappearance,
too, was altogether in keeping with the shark-charmer's cunning. As
for himself, he would gladly have cried quits with old Salambo then and
there, if by so doing he could have recalled Jack to his side.
At length he fell into a troubled sleep, unconscious of the fact that
another brain than his was busy with Jack's fate. Had he but known it,
Bosin deserved more than a passing thought that night.
By daybreak they were again astir, and within an hour the cutter lay
snugly ensconced in the shelter of a deep, vine-draped cavern beneath
the cliff, some hundred yards down the creek, of which the captain knew.
In carrying out this part of the old sailor's plan, the canoe, for which
an effective paddle was improvised out of an old oar, proved of signal
service; and when the smaller skiff had in its turn been hidden away in
the dense jungle bordering the beach, they loaded up with the remaining
stores, and took the pathway to the Haunted Pagodas, which they
eventually reached just as the sun, like a huge ball of fire, rolled up
out of the eastern sea.
As the captain had said, the Haunted Pagodas was indeed “a tidy spot to
fall back upon.” Ages before, a circle of massive temples had crowned
the summit of this island hill; but for full a thousand years had Nature
searched out with silent, prying fingers the minutest crevices of the
closer-cemented stones, ruthlessly destroying what man had so proudly
reared, until nothing save a confusion of tumble down walls and broken
pillars, grotesquely draped with climbing vines and like parasitic
growths, remained to mark the site of the erstwhile stately cloisters. A
shuddery spot it was!--a likely lurking-place for reptile or wild beast,
so uncanny in its weird union of jungle wildness and dead men's work,
that one would scarcely have been surprised had the terrible witch-tiger
of the native legend suddenly leapt out upon one from some dark pit or
sunless recess.
In one spot alone had the walls successfully resisted the action of the
insinuating roots. This was a sort of cloister with a floor of stone,
upon which the roof had fallen. But when the _debris_ had been cleared
away, and the stores scattered about in its stead, this corner of
the ruins looked positively homelike and comfortable--especially when
Puggles, taking possession of one of its angles, converted it into a
kitchen, and began active preparations for breakfast. The captain dubbed
their new retreat “the fo'csle.”
All that day the old sailor was in an unusually thoughtful mood. Every
half-hour or so he would produce his pipe and take a number of slow,
meditative “whiffs o' the fragrant,” after which he would slap his thigh
energetically with one horny hand, and stump back and forth amid the
ruins in a state of high excitement, until, something going wrong with
his train of thought, the pipe had to be relighted, and the difficulty,
like the tobacco, smoked out again.
This characteristic process of “ilin' up his runnin' gear” he continued
far on into the afternoon, when he abruptly laid the huge meerschaum
aside, took a critical survey of sea and sky, and, bearing down on
Don, where he sat cleaning the muskets, without further ado planted a
resounding thump on that young gentleman's back.
“Blow me!” he burst out, as if Don was already initiated into his
train of thought, “the wery identical thing, lad. An what's that? you
naterally axes. Why, d'ye see, I've been splicin' o' my idees together
a bit, so to say, an' shiver my main-brace if I ain't gone an' rescued
Master Jack!”
Edging away a little lest the captain's rising excitement should again
culminate in one of his well-meant, but none the less undesirable
thumps, “You mean, I suppose,” said Don, “that you've hit upon a plan
for his rescue.”
“Ay, lad,” assented the captain, “but an idee well spun is a deed half
done, d'ye mind me. Howsomedever, let's take our bearin's afore we runs
for port, says you. An' to begin with, as the shark said----”
What the shark said, as well as what the captain was about to say, was
doomed to remain for ever a matter of conjecture, for at that instant
Puggles set up a shout that effectually interrupted the conversation.
“Sa'b! sar! me done see um, sa'b. Him done come back, sar.”
Naturally enough, Don's first thought was of Jack. He sprang to his
feet, his heart giving a wild leap of joy, and then standing still with
suspense. For in all the clearing no human form appeared.
Puggles had now reached his master's side. “Him there got, sa'b, there!”
he reiterated, pointing towards the narrow break in the jungle which
indicated the starting-point of the pathway to the creek. Between this
point and the spot where they stood, the jungle grass grew thick and
tall.
As they looked they saw it sway in a long, wavy undulation, as if some
living thing were rapidly making its way towards them. In another moment
the rank covert parted, and there appeared, not Jack, but Bosin.
“Knots an' marlinspikes!” ejaculated the delighted captain, as the
monkey scrambled chattering upon his knee. “What's this 'ere as the imp
o' darkness's been an' made a prize of? I axes.”
Around the monkey's neck a shred of draggled, blood-stained linen was
securely bound. Already Don was fumbling at the knot, his face whiter
than the rag itself.
“A message from Jack!” he announced joyfully, when at length the
tightly-drawn knot yielded, and a scrap of paper fluttered to the
ground.
“Shiver my main-brace!” roared the captain, bringing his hand down on
that unoffending member as if about to give a practical demonstration of
his words, “ain't I said as much all along, lad? Alive he is, an' alive
he remains. An' blow me if ever I see anything to beat this 'ere method
o' excommunicating atween friends, says I. So let's hear what Master
Jack has got to say for hisself.”
Don had already run his eye over the pencilled writing. “He's all right,
thank God!” he exclaimed, in a tone of intense relief. “Wounded, as I
feared--a mere scratch, he says--but you shall hear for yourself:--
“'Don't be cut up, old fellow,'” he read aloud, “'it will all come light
in the end. The niggers pounced down on me before I heard them. Just had
time to let off one of the captain's old kickers, when a crack on the
head laid me out. I'm in a village on the sea-shore, and by great good
luck I can see the hill and the smoke of what, I suppose, is your fire,
from the window of the hut they've stuck me in. It doesn't seem quite
so bad when I look at that.... Bosin just turned up. Am writing in hopes
he'll carry this safely to you. Close prisoner. Have to scribble when
the beggars aren't watching me. Overheard them palavering just now. They
take me to the E. R. to-night--'”
“Which he means the Elephant Rock!” cried the captain, interrupting.
“Blow me! I knowed as that 'ere Elephant 'ud go an' make wittles of him,
d'ye see?”
Don nodded and read on:
“'Old Salambo's work this. He means to make terms for the pearls----'”
“Copper my bottom, lad! Them's the wery identical words as I've stood by
all along!” the captain broke in again.
“Wait!” said Don impatiently. “There's something important here. I
couldn't make it out before, the writing's so scrawly towards the end.
Listen to this: 'There's a streak down the face of the hill, that looks
like a path to the village here. If Bosin's in time, come early. Don't
let the hdkf.(sp) alarm you; it's a mere scratch.'”
Reading off these last words rapidly, Don pointed to the sun, already
half-hidden by the western horizon.
“There's no time to lose, captain! He must be set free before he's taken
to the Rock.”
“Right, lad; so let's tumble out and man the guns!” cried the captain,
lurching to his feet and giving his pantaloons a determined hitch-up.
“We always be ready!
Steady, lad, steady!
We'll fight an' we'll conquer agin and agin!”
“That we will,” assented Don heartily; “but first we must get the
bearings of this village, captain. Where's the glass? Spottie! Hi,
Spottie!--the glass here!”
In response to the summons, Puggles ran up with the captain's telescope.
“Spottie done go fetch water, sa'b,” he explained.
“There is a village,” Don announced, after adjusting the instrument and
carefully sweeping the sea-shore. “Just there, in that clump of trees;
the only one within range, so far as I can see. Do you make it out,
captain?”
“Ay,” said the captain, taking the glass; “there's a willage below, sure
as sharks is sharks.”
“The next thing, then,” continued Don, “is to find this path Jack speaks
of. 'Twould take us two good hours at least to go round by way of the
creek. Do you know, I've a notion the path to the spring is the one we
want. Suppose we try it?”
The captain making no demur, Don caught up a musket and led the way to
the spring. This spring was Spottie's discovery. It lay to the left
of the creek path, about fifty yards down the hillside. The jungle had
almost obliterated the path by which it was approached, but this the
black had in some degree remedied by a vigorous use of the axe during
the day, and, as Puggles had intimated, he was now at the spring,
replenishing the water bucket.
Hardly had Don and the captain got fairly into the path when there rose
from the depths of the jungle immediately below them a series of frantic
yells. The voice was undoubtedly Spottie's, and, judging from the manner
in which he used it, Sputtie stood--or believed he stood--in sore need
of assistance. Quickening his pace to a run, Don soon came upon him,
making for the open, minus bucket and turban, his eyes protruding from
their sockets, and altogether in a terrible state of fright.
“What's the matter?” cried Don, catching him by the arm and shaking him
until he was fain to cease his bellowing.
“De t-t-tiger-witch, sa'b!” said Spottie, his teeth chattering. “Me done
see um, sa'b!”
Just then the captain came up.
“He's seen a monkey or something, and thinks it's the tiger-witch,”
explained Don, laughing at the poor fellows piteous face. “Whereabouts
is it, Spottie?”
Spottie pointed fearfully down the shadowy pathway, where a faint
snapping of twigs could be heard in the underbrush.
“Blow me!” said the captain, after listening intently a moment, “yon
warmint bain't no monkey, lad. So let's lay alongside an' diskiver what
quarter o' the animile kingdom he hails from, says you.”
And with that he started off in the direction of the sound.
Bidding Spottie remain where he was, Don followed. The captain was,
perhaps, ten paces in advance. Suddenly the jungle parted with a loud
swish, and a tawny body shot through the air and alighted full upon the
captain's back, bearing him to the ground ere he could utter so much as
a cry.
Don stood petrified. Then a savage, guttural growling, accompanied by a
sickening crunching sound, roused him to the old sailors danger.
There was just sufficient light left to show the two figures on the
ground--the tiger atop, his fangs buried in the captains thigh. Priming
the musket rapidly with some loose powder he happened to have in his
pocket, Don sprang to the captain's aid. The tiger lifted its head at
his approach with an angry snarl, but this was no time to think of his
own danger. Quick as thought he thrust the muzzle of the musket between
the beast's jaws and fired.
An instant later and he was on his back. The tiger had sprung clean
over him, knocking him down in its passage, and now lay some yards away,
writhing in the death struggle. Don picked himself up and ran to the
old sailor's side. As he reached the spot where he lay, the captain
struggled into a sitting posture, and stared about him bewilderedly.
“Stave my bulkhead!” roared he, “if this bain't the purtiest go as ever
I see. An' what quarter o' the animile kingdom might the warmint hail
from? I axes.”
“A tiger, captain; a genuine man-eater. But, I say, are you hurt?”
“Hurt is it?” demanded the captain. “Why, dye see, lad,” first adjusting
his neckcloth, and then proceeding to feel himself carefully over,
“barrin' this 'ere bit of a chafe to my figgerhead, I hain't started a
nail, d'ye see. Avast there! Shiver my main-brace, what's this? I axes.”
Just where the “main-brace” was spliced upon the thigh, a sad rent in
the captain's broad pantaloons showed the wooden portion of his anatomy
to be deeply indented and splintered. At this discovery he stopped
aghast in the process of feeling for broken bones.
“Why, don't you see how it is?” laughed Don. “The brute has tried
to make a meal off your wooden leg, captain.”
The captain burst into one of his tremendous guffaws. “Blow me if I
don't admire the warmint's taste,” said he. “An uncommon affectionate un
he is, says you, so let's pay our respec's to him 'ithout delay, lad.”
The tiger proved to be a magnificent specimen of his tribe; and, as he
stood over the 'tawny carcase in the waning light, Don could not
repress a feeling of pardonable pride at thought of his own share in the
adventure which had ended so disastrously for the superb creature at his
feet.
“Captain,” said he presently, when that worthy had inspected and admired
the striped monster to his heart's content, “Captain, it strikes me as
being somewhat of a rare thing to run against a fullblown tiger on an
island like this. Don't you think so?”
“Ay, that it is,” assented the captain; “rare as sea-sarpents.”
“That explains it, then: the tiger-witch story, I mean. This chap's
great size, and the fact that man-eaters aren't often met with on
these little nutshell islands, have made him the terror of the whole
community, you see. He's their witch, I'll be bound. Now.” he ran on,
seeing the captain express his approval of this likely explanation by a
series of emphatic nods, “now I'll tell you what I mean to do. Dear old
Jack's a prisoner, and we're bound to get him out of limbo if we can.
His captors--those native beggars--go in mortal terror of this beast
here. Good! Why shouldn't Pug and I carry the creature's skin down to
the village yonder--where Jack is, you know--use it to impersonate the
witch-tiger, and terrify the niggers----”
He got no farther with his explanation, for the captain, having already
grasped the idea, at this point grasped its originator by the hand, and
cut in with: “Spike my guns, the wery identical thing, lad! Blow me, the
lubberly swabs'll tumble into the jungle like a lot o' porpoises when
they sees that 'ere tiger-skin a-hangin' on your recreant limbs. An'
then hooray for Master Jack, says you! Why not? I axes.”