If he were, there was likely to be every opportunity, for outside the roar and shrieks of the natives were appalling in their intensity. Dick stepped to the front face of the hut and peered through one of the many crevices, for in New Guinea draughts of cold air are rather to be desired than otherwise, the heat often enough being extreme. Through that peephole he saw something that almost turned him livid, rooted him to the spot, and for a moment held him helpless. For directly beneath his ken was the figure of the unfortunate Larkin, strung up to one of those stumps driven into the ground, surrounded by a gesticulating and evil-smelling mob, and with those three foul, over-dressed sorcerers close to him. They were dancing now with a different movement. They were sidling from one point to another, as far as the pressing throng would allow, twisting this way and that with sinuous, snake-like movements, but never once taking their eyes from their victim. And each one of these brutes was armed--the tallest and most hideous with an enormous club; a second, a fat ruffian of particularly evil type of countenance, with a curving knife; while the third waved a flaming torch. As for Larkin, he at least showed his mettle, and reflected credit upon the service to which he belonged. For he did not wince, not even when each of those sorcerers in turn sidled in his direction and brandished his weapons at him, while the third made pretence to set on fire the wood littering the ground at his feet. Larkin addressed them in a manner common to the barrack-room. There was the strong flavour of the canteen about his speech; while his two eyes, no doubt each addressing itself to some different point, fixed upon the rascals dancing there, scowled at them, threatened them, but never flinched. "They're--they're going to sacrifice him, Larkin," Dick managed to blurt out at last. "The black-'earted 'eathen," came in a growl from Hawkins, now at his side, while Hurst joined them, muttering deeply beneath his breath. "What'll you do, sir?" "Wait for Mr. Alec and the officers, then rush 'em. Get hold of those clubs." But a second later there came a disturbing noise from the adjacent hut, just at the precise moment when that hideous tall sorcerer danced his way back to Larkin, and, swinging his club overhead, brought it down with a thud on the top of the pillar to which the unhappy fellow was lashed. Even then the brave soldier did not flinch. They heard him growl loudly and angrily as the club thudded on the top of the stump. "That's one fer you," they heard, "one fer you, yer ugly son of a gun. But jest you wait till I get a whack in. Then I'll make yer feel sorry you was born, I will."