In the next moment, though, all conversation between them ceased abruptly. A door opened and two shadowy figures came into the room. At the sound of the latch and the soft footsteps that followed immediately, Dawson screwed his head around, fully expecting to see the leering, buck-toothed face of some son of Nippon. Neither of the two figures who came into the room were Japanese. At any rate they certainly didn't look like Japanese. They looked more like a couple of ragged Hawaiians, although their cheek bones were unusually high. And when Dawson took a second look at their faces he was instantly struck with the impression that both were a trifle scared. One of them carried a tray of food, while the other carried a snub-nosed automatic, and acted as though he expected the thing to blow up almost any second. The one with the tray of food placed it on the floor, and then, while the other stood guard with his "nervous" gun, he moved around by Dawson's head, and motioned for the Yank air ace to roll over on his stomach. Dawson hesitated an instant and then did as signalled. Hands fumbled with the rope about his wrists, and presently his half numbed wrists were free. He pulled them down by his sides, and with his head turned that way he watched the man free Freddy Farmer's wrists, also. That done, the brown-skinned man leaped quickly backward and pushed the tray of food between them with one bare foot. "Food," he said in a strange husky voice. "You eat. You eat food." Not all of the circulation had returned to Dawson's wrists and his arms from finger tips to shoulder sockets felt stabbed by a billion needles as he shifted over on his back, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He heard Freddy Farmer gasp as he, too, sat up. He shot a quick glance at his English-born pal, saw that he was suffering the same kind of pain, and then looked at the food. It was of the Hawaiian variety and didn't look bad at all. His prime interest at the moment, however, was not in food, regardless of the growling that had started up in his stomach. He looked at the two raggedly clad brown men, of very uncertain origin no doubt. They returned his look with all the intelligence of a bottle fly showing in their high cheek-boned faces. "Where are we?" Dawson asked, and smiled at them. Like a rehearsed act the two brown men shook their heads, and pointed long forefingers at the tray of food. "You eat," they said in the same breath. Dawson shook his head, smiled again, and made a gesture with his tingling right arm that included the house where they were. "What place is this?" he said slowly, spacing his words. "Where is boss man? Me make talk with boss fella, yes. You savvy?" The two brown men, with jet black hair, shook their heads as one again and pointed. "Okay, skip it!" Dawson said quickly. "I get the idea. Me eat. Okay, me eat."