Waiting in the darkness, looking down on the camp of the kidnapping Africans, Joe, Blake and the sergeant, and the blacks with them, listened for the echoes of the shots that would tell of the beginning of the attack. C. C. Piper and Mr. Duncan, with about half of the porters and Chako, were in the second party. “I wonder what will happen,” asked Blake, “when the firing begins?” “There’ll be one grand rush,” said Joe, “and it will be up to us to make it a worse one. The more we can demoralize them the better it will be for us.” “That’s right,” agreed the sergeant. “Get ’em wild, so they don’t know what’s happening, and we can rush in there and make our rescues. I hope we shall be able to save some of the missionaries’ friends as well as your sister and Mr. and Mrs. Brown, Joe.” “I hope so, too. Lucky we got here before they began their so-called religious ceremonies--these kidnappers.” “That’s right. Chako said they might start to-morrow, though. We’re only just in time.” “And it will soon be to-morrow,” spoke Blake, softly. “It will be daylight in a short time.” They looked down on the camp. Here and there a sentinel fire could be seen burning dimly, but even the guards had gone to sleep, it seemed, for none could be observed pacing about. It was as the messenger had said--they all slept heavily toward morning. “They ought to be there by this time,” said the sergeant after a long pause. “I wonder if anything could have happened to----” He was interrupted by several shots that echoed through the night. The darkness, over on the far side of the camp, was cut by several jagged splinters of flame. “There they go!” cried Blake. “Now for the fireworks!” sang out his chum. Once more came a burst of rifle fire from the other attacking party. “Let ’em go!” shouted the sergeant. The scene was now one of confusion. The blacks in their camp, suddenly awakened by the volleys, were rushing about, yelling at the top of their voices. They could not imagine what was going on. A few shots came in return--shots from old-fashioned muskets that did no harm. Then, with a mighty roar, a big skyrocket shot over the African camp, scattering fire and sparks and colored balls in its train. It was followed by several others; Roman candles, and then several other forms of pyrotechnics, set off by Blake and Joe, shot through the darkness. The effect was startling. The blacks who had started to run away from the rifle fire, harmless as it was, for the shots were directed into the air, were met by the rain of sparks from the aerial bombs and other pieces of Fourth of July ordnance the moving picture boys touched off. There was considerable noise, too, for some of the pieces burst with loud reports. “How are you making out, Joe?” called Blake from the place where he had stationed himself--a sort of clearing behind a clump of mimosa trees. “Fine and dandy. How about you?”