slow going, as they had to be wary of animals in the brush, yet all the while they felt the urge to hurry in case their escape had been discovered back at the Macu camp. At last, however, they came upon the trail. Then came the question: Which direction should they take?

“The safari must have come as far as we did,” declared Biff, “in fact probably a lot farther, as they were supposed to keep on coming until they overtook us.”

“But when they didn’t find us,” said Kamuka, “they must have turned back to look.”

“You may be right,” decided Biff. “They could have figured, too, that we missed the trail somewhere along the line. I’ll tell you what. Let’s go back along the trail a couple of miles anyway. If we don’t meet them, we’ll know they are up ahead.”

“And all the time,” added Kamuka, “we keep good sharp look for Macu!”

That final point was so important that both Biff and Kamuka kept paying more attention to the bordering jungle than to the trail itself. Every sound, from a bird call to a monkey howl might mean that Macu hunters were about. So could the slightest stir among the jungle flowers and the banks of surrounding plants, where at any moment, painted faces topped with wavy hair might come popping into sight as they had the afternoon before.

But there wasn’t a trace of motion in all that sultry setting until the boys reached a place where the trail took a short, sharp turn around the slanted trunk of a fallen ceiba tree. Biff, in the lead, gave a quick glad cry as he saw native bearers coming toward them, bowed under the weight of the packs they carried.

At the head of the column strode a white-clad man wearing a tropical helmet. At sight of him, Biff turned and called to Kamuka:

“Here’s Mr. Whitman coming with the whole safari! We’re safe now, Kamuka! Come on!”

With that, Biff dashed forward, only to be caught by the shoulders and spun full about, his arm twisted in back of him. Biff’s captor shoved him straight toward the leader of the safari, and the boy saw for the first time that the man in white wasn’t Mr. Whitman.

Looking down from beneath the pith helmet was the ever-smiling face of Nicholas Serbot, tinted an unearthly green in the subdued glow of the jungle. Over Biff’s shoulder leered the face of his captor, Big Pepito!

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