Led by Tom, the party, ten in all, struck off in the direction of the village. Thanks to the light of the moon, which now lay a little above the horizon, Tom was able to make a fairly straight course for the plantation in which he had hidden during the previous day. Once or twice he strayed from the proper track, and ultimately found that he was nearly a mile from his objective; but this was not bad, considering that there was no beaten road, and they had to tramp across rough country. When he reached the plantation he was no longer in doubt as to the true direction; during his long stay among the trees he had had time to take his bearings pretty thoroughly. Mr. Greatorex was blown by the time they came to the clearing in which the airship had descended, and Tom begged him to remain hidden in the plantation while the rest went on to the village. “Pff!” panted the perspiring old gentleman. “Never gave up _anything_ yet; on you go!” But a slight halt was made while Tom completed arrangements for his night raid. The village was walled; the gates would no doubt be shut, as at Ain Afroo; the wall must be scaled. Captain Bodgers selected the biggest men to give their more active comrades a “leg-up.” These latter were provided with ropes, by which they might haul up the others when they had themselves gained a footing on the wall. Tom impressed on them all the necessity of maintaining dead silence. He estimated that the village contained about a hundred fighting men, and if the approach of the raiders were discovered in time for the walls to be manned, the chance of a successful coup would be small indeed. All carried firearms except Mr. Greatorex. He had a knobbed stick, capable of dealing a very damaging blow. “There’s bound to be a _fight_, I suppose?” he had said when Tom was discussing his plans on the yacht. “I don’t like _that_, you know. I’d punch a man’s nose and knock him down without scruple, of course; but that needn’t _kill_ him, you know. Besides, how do I _stand_? This is uncommonly like a piratical raid—like Jameson’s, and he might have been _hanged_. However!” Tom assured him that no blood should be shed if it could possibly be avoided; but he had small hopes that the night would end without a fight, and a very brisk one.