When our third captive regained consciousness, however, he must have told them of his suspicions, for I distinctly heard him give the DANGER call. It was followed by a guttural sound in a low key--an anthropoid expression with which I was not familiar. It may have been equivalent to "Impostors!" or "Spiteful Beasts!" or "Bad Characters!" Gorillas must meet such animals in their own tribe, and it is probable that they can express their resentment of the fact to one another. It is only human conceit which makes us think that character-reading, with the allied arts of backbiting and slander, are peculiar to our own species. Many of the so-called "dumb" brutes may be just as proficient as we are in telling one another exactly what they think of a third animal. In any case, I am convinced that our last victim gave us away to the other two. The noise which they all began making was terrible. It must have been audible two or three miles away, and was evidently an exhibition of rage, with the intention of frightening us away. "D'you think they're calling for help?" I asked Stringer. "If so, we'd better get back into the cage again." "I don't like it," he shouted in reply. "Why haven't those infernal natives returned by now? And when are those stretcher bearers from the aerodrome going to arrive?" I could feel in my bones that something tragic had happened--or was going to happen--or might happen! What was it? Whence would it come? I scanned the encircling trees and when my gaze alighted on the first two gorillas I saw a sight which held me spellbound. The bushes immediately behind the smaller of the brutes had suddenly been thrust aside, and there emerged another of these jungle folk with an uplifted hand, bearing a club-shaped piece of wood. It flashed through my startled brain that this ferocious-looking newcomer was about to strike one of our defenceless captives--an unthinkable crime--a piece of animal "awfulness" which could not be tolerated by even the most callous human being. There was only one way of preventing this sudden and dastardly attack, and I chose it unhesitatingly. Raising my automatic, I cried out to Stringer, hooked my finger round the trigger and pulled. But I was too late. The strangest thing in the world had happened. Stringer's hand had shot forth with incredible swiftness, struck up my own, and diverted the bullet into the tree-tops. "Good God!" he shouted, "Are you _blind_, man?" I peered through the clearing smoke. "Well, I'm damned!" I said. CHAPTER XIII THE GORILLA AT HOME My emotions were mixed. I was angry, and yet at the same time I was very grateful to Stringer and Providence. No man enjoys being the victim of a practical joke; neither does he relish the feeling that only good luck has prevented his committing homicide. I thrust my revolver back into my hip pocket, and strode over to the gentleman with the club.