“Oh, that’s nothing,” returned Chick. “When I was here with the chief before, we learned a whole lot about India. It was our Jai Singh himself who told us about the rajah and his observatories. He’s a good fellow, but he’s a terror when he gets into a fight. Don’t forget that.” “He makes those sun-baked bluffs at the oars attend to business, I notice.” “Yes. They know that when Jai Singh is behind them, they have to keep moving,” returned Chick. “Hello! He’s coming aboard.” Even as he spoke, the boat came up to the steamer, and Jai Singh, putting a hand on one of the anchor chains, held his small craft firmly, in spite of the tossing of the waves. He seemed to have a grip of iron. In another minute or two the boat was secured to the anchor chain by a rope, and the tall Hindu climbed aboard like a monkey, spear and all. Once on deck, he ran up to the bridge, and putting his right hand to his forehead, made a deep salaam to Nick Carter. CHAPTER II. UP INTO THE HILLS. “Sahib, I am here!” said Jai Singh, in English, in a deep, guttural tone. “I’m glad to see you, Jai Singh,” responded Nick Carter. “But I did not expect to find you so many miles from your home.” “It is to help the sahib that I come,” replied Jai Singh, with dignity. “The men of the hills have taken one who must be saved.” “Great Scott!” broke in Jefferson Arnold. “What does he know about it? I always have contended that these Indians know more than seems possible unless they have supernatural powers at their back.” “It is Sahib Leslie Arnold,” went on Jai Singh calmly. “In the temple it was told to me that you would come.” “What kind of bunk is that?” whispered Patsy. “Who told him, do you think?” “Keep quiet, Patsy,” warned Chick. “He’s liable to hear you. Don’t you know that India is the land of mysteries? If you never believed in ghosts and demons, and all that kind of thing, you’ve got a surprise coming to you. You will find that things are not always what you see in this country. Houdini, Herrman, and Keller are not in it with some of these men when it comes to the black art.” “Black rot!” muttered Patsy, entirely unconvinced. Jai Singh was a noble figure. His light dress, suitable for such a climate, emphasized his physical grace and strength. The white shirt was open at the throat, and the white linen trousers, coming just below the knee, allowed the muscles of his powerful legs to be seen as they moved about under the dark satin skin like living things. There were heavy golden armlets clanking at his wrists, and circlets of the same precious metal were around his ankles. The one thing out of keeping with his picturesque Orientalism was the heavy automatic pistol which hung to a light cartridge belt around his waist. The latter was well supplied with cartridges, and the naturalness with which the hand of the owner dropped upon the butt of his revolver now and then suggested that he was no novice in the use of that particular weapon of the white man.