“Call up the boat, O’Neil,” Phil said; his voice was unsteady. “Say Kataafa has guns, and warriors have blackened their faces.” They were now on the sandy beach close to the water. O’Neil drew from his stirrup leather the red wigwag flag which he had brought along for the purpose of sending news quickly back to Ukula by the steam launch. He began at once to wave it over his head and scarcely a second elapsed before a similar flag appeared in the bow of the tiny launch nearly a mile away. “They were on the job,” Sydney exclaimed, while O’Neil went to work rapidly to send the signal given him a moment before by Phil. [Illustration: HE BEGAN AT ONCE TO WAVE IT] “Sent and received, sir,” he reported as he flourished the flag in a farewell signal and then calmly rolled it up, sticking it back into his boot leather. Then for the first time the sailor noted the menacing attitude of the people about them. A woman’s voice was calling them from the edge of the crowd. She was endeavoring to reach their side. “Missi Klinger say you better ride back quick,” she cried, her handsome face ashen with fear for the papalangis. “Come quick with me; it might be death to stay longer.” Fanua put forth her most eloquent English. She had been educated at the mission school, but like most natives was shy in speaking a foreign language. She had taken Phil’s bridle rein, and now led his horse through the crowd while the other two followed. “They won’t harm us,” O’Neil declared comfortingly, although he did not believe his own words. “The signal has roused their distrust of us, that’s all.” “We’re spies,” Sydney exclaimed. “Is it unnatural for them to wish to harm us?” “There’s no war, sir,” O’Neil said, “so we can’t be spies. And besides, we’re in uniform.” “Then under the laws of war,” the midshipman replied, “they can take us prisoners.” “The news will get through just the same,” O’Neil said gladly, “and Commander Tazewell will have warning in time to carry out whatever plan he has decided upon.” Klinger had left his companions and had advanced to meet the returning Americans. He walked beside Phil’s horse, while Sydney and O’Neil pushed forward their ponies to hear. The manager’s face was the color of his white clothes. “Don’t stop,” he warned anxiously. “Even the king Kataafa could not hold his people if a fanatic should raise the cry to kill you.” Phil did his best to look haughty and unconcerned, but he could feel his knees tremble against his pony’s flanks. “You’ve started your war, I see,” he mustered his voice to say, endeavoring to put into it a note of scorn and defiance. Klinger did not reply to the accusation.