“If you had, I should have known a great deal more about it,” remarked Nick Carter. “Bolongu is a comparatively familiar name to me. I had heard of the Land of the Golden Scarab only occasionally. Pike is up there, is he?” Leslie Arnold would have answered, but just then there came a concerted howl from above that indicated an intention on the part of the enemy to do something and to do it quickly. Adil had been scouting without the knowledge of any of the party. He returned now, with a grave face. He turned toward Nick Carter, as if to tell him something, when he caught sight of the face of Leslie Arnold. With a cry of pleasure there could be no mistaking, he rushed at his young employer and grasped both his hands. “Adil!” “Sahib!” “Where did you come from, Adil? I thought they’d killed you.” “They tried. But Sahib Carter would not let them. The medicine man died by a snake. The others ran away when Sahib Carter and the others from America bade them. But you, Sahib Arnold? How is it?” “I got away four days after they took you down into the hills to offer you as a sacrifice in the land you came from. That was to make the sacrifice good for that part of the country,” answered Leslie. “Gee! These people from Bolongu, or the Land of the Golden Crab, or whatever it is,” put in Patsy, “never overlook any bets. I suppose if they were going to sacrifice me, they’d frame it up in the Bowery or Union Square, so as to make it stick in New York. They make me sick.” “What have you found up there, Adil?” asked Nick Carter, who had been waiting with what patience he could command to question the young Hindu. “They are coming down all at once. They have been commanded to do it, even if some are killed. I heard them talking.” “In English?” asked Chick. “Yes. They use the tongue of the white man all over India,” supplied Jai Singh. “Even in Bolongu, which is outside the pale, they still carry on the language they learned from the white man two hundred and fifty years ago. The tribes over the Himalayas have all been in Lower Hindustan at different times.” “I know that to be true,” remarked Nick Carter. “That is why they are so dangerous. Always, when Oriental races pass under the influence of the Caucasian, they must be kept in close communion with him ever after, or they will forget his civilization, and retain only his cunning.” Patsy Garvan had heard this with some signs of weariness. He wanted action, not dissertations on the white and Hindu races. “Are we going to try out those guys up there, chief?” he asked. “We shall have to hold them back. Where are the four men of Jai Singh?” “They are here, sahib,” returned the tall Hindu composedly. “I called them while I hung over the rock.” “Gee! There’s nothing slow about Jai Singh,” observed Patsy. “He’s as slick as Jay Gould ever was.” “Are the boys all here?” asked Nick Carter. “They are here,” was the grave response.