Part 21 (2/2)

”Bless my percussion cap! They certainly are the very worst imps for fighting that I ever heard of,” commented Mr. Damon helplessly.

”Is the gas bag much punctured?” asked Ned Newton.

”Wait a minute,” resumed the young inventor, as he pulled the speed lever a trifle farther over, thereby sending the craft forward more swiftly, ”I think my question ought to be answered first. What's to be done? Are we going to run away, and leave that man and woman to their fate?”

”Of course not!” declared Mr. Durban stoutly, ”but we couldn't stay there, and have them destroy the airs.h.i.+p.”

”No, that's so,” admitted Tom, ”if we lost the airs.h.i.+p it would be all up with us and our chances of rescuing the missionaries. But what can we do? I hate to retreat!”

”But what else is there left for us?” demanded Ned.

”Nothing, of course. But we've got to plan to get the best of those red pygmies. We can't go back in the airs.h.i.+p, and give them open battle. There are too many of them, and, by Jove! I believe more are coming every minute!”

Tom and the others looked down. From all sides of the plain, hastening toward the village of mud huts, from which our friends were retreating, could be seen swarms of the small but fierce savages. They were coming from the jungle, and were armed with war clubs, bows and arrows and the small but formidable blowguns.

”Where are they coming from?” asked Mr. Damon.

”From the surrounding tribes,” explained Mr. Durban. ”They have been summoned to do battle against us.”

”But how did the ones we fought get word to the others so soon?” Ned demanded.

”Oh, they have ways of signaling,” explained Mr. Anderson. ”They can make the notes of some of their hollow-tree drums carry a long distance, and then they are very swift runners, and can penetrate into the jungle along paths that a white man would hardly see. They also use the smoke column as a signal, as our own American Indians used to do. Oh, they can summon all their tribesmen to the fight, and they probably will. Likely the sound of our guns attracted the imps, though if we all had electric rifles like Tom's they wouldn't make any noise.”

”Well, my rifle didn't appear to do so very much good this time,”

observed the young inventor, as he stopped the forward motion of the s.h.i.+p now, and let it hover over the plain in sight of the village, the gas bag serving to sustain the craft, and there was little wind to cause it to drift. ”Those fellows didn't seem to mind being hurt and killed any more than if mosquitoes were biting them.”

”The trouble is we need a whole army, armed with electric rifles to make a successful attack,” said Mr. Durban. ”There are swarms of them there now, and more coming every minute. I do hope Mr. and Mrs.

Illingway are alive yet.”

”Yes,” added Mr. Anderson solemnly, ”we must hope for the best. But, like Tom Swift, I ask, what's to be done?”

”Bless my thinking cap!” exclaimed Mr. Damon. ”It seems to me if we can't fight them openly in the daytime, there's only one other thing to do.”

”What's that?” asked Tom. ”Go away? I'll not do it!”

”No, not go away,” exclaimed Mr. Damon, ”but make a night attack. We ought to be able to do something then, and with your illuminating rifle, Tom, we'd have an advantage! What do you say?”

”I say it's the very thing!” declared Tom, with sudden enthusiasm.

”We'll attack them to-night, when they're off their guard, and we'll see if we can't get the missionaries out of that hut. And to better fool the savages, we'll just disappear now, and make 'em believe we've flown away.”

”Then the missionaries will think we're deserting them,” objected Mr. Anderson.

But there was no help for it, and so Tom once more turned on the power and the craft sailed away.

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