He swung his
long arms backward and forwards, cracking his fingers, and talked
unintelligibly to himself, hoarse, guttural murmurings without
sense or import. Trent changed his place and for the first time
saw the Kru boy. His face darkened and an angry exclamation broke
from his lips. It was something like this which he had been
expecting.
The Kru boy drew nearer and nearer. Finally he stood upright on
the rank, coarse grass and grinned at Monty, whose lean hands were
outstretched towards him. He fumbled for a moment in his loin-cloth.
Then he drew out a long bottle and handed it up. Trent stepped out
as Monty's nervous fingers were fumbling with the cork. He made a
grab at the boy who glided off like an eel. Instantly he whipped
out a revolver and covered him.
"Come here," he cried.
The boy shook his head. "No understand."
"Who sent you here with that filthy stuff?" he asked sternly. "You'd
best answer me."
The Kru boy, shrinking away from the dark muzzle of that motionless
revolver, was spellbound with fear. He shook his head.
"No understand."
There was a flash of light, a puff of smoke, a loud report. The
Kru boy fell forward upon his face howling with fear. Monty ran
off towards the house mumbling to himself.
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