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.”