“Natives might help us. But say! What’s going on?” Steve’s voice rose. Jack hushed him up. “Look!” Stew insisted in a whisper, handing back the binoculars. “They’re gassing her up! Aren’t those kerosene barrels?” “Sure are,” Jack agreed, after a look. “But you could put gas in them.” Fascinated, the boys watched until the strangers had finished fueling the plane and had rolled the barrels into a crevasse, where they covered them with driftwood and dry palm fronds. “Mighty secretive,” Stew whispered. “So are all the islanders these days. This is war. We—look!” Jack’s whisper was shrill. “They’ve climbed in to take off and they haven’t any propeller!” “Good joke on them!” Stew chuckled. “They won’t get far.” The plane was facing the sea. When the brakes were released, it slid slowly down the slope into the water. Ten seconds later the plane let out a low squeal, then started gliding over the blue sea. The squeal rose to a howl. Faster and faster went the propellerless thing until at last it left the water to sail away at tremendous speed. “What do you know about that!” Jack stood staring until the plane was a mere speck in the sky. “That’s something I won’t believe—a plane without a propeller that squeals and howls and goes faster than any plane you or I ever saw. Come on! Let’s go down there for a better look at those fuel drums.” “But there might be more men.” Stew hung back. “Nonsense! If there were others they wouldn’t have hidden the drums!” “Guess you’re right.” Stew followed Jack. Once they were at the spot the plane had just left, they were convinced at once that the mystery plane actually burned kerosene, for the air was filled with kerosene fumes and the buckets and barrels smelled of it. “Kerosene, beyond a doubt,” Jack exclaimed. “Think of doing four or five hundred miles per hour on kerosene! “Come on! Let’s get out of here! They may come back.” He led the way rapidly up the slope. CHAPTER IX THE TAGGED MONKEY There was little room to doubt that the trail they had followed was used by natives as well as by animals, for on their way back they came upon fresh prints of bare feet in the soft earth. Stew had uncomfortable visions of poisoned arrows and darts from blowguns flying at them through the brush, but Jack, gripping his automatic, marched straight ahead. Arriving at the spot where the narrow stream tumbled down, they decided to follow it to its source. In just a moment they found themselves confronted with a problem. They had come to a thicket of thorny bushes. These formed an arch over the stream. “Just one thing to do—pull off our shoes and wade it,” Jack decided. “Go native.” Stew laughed as he kicked off his G.I. brogans.