Gordon walked with Bradley, Jr., in advance.  Stedman and old Tom Bradley followed close behind, with the two shot-guns, and the presents in a basket.

“Are these Hillmen used to guns?” asked Gordon.  Stedman said no, they were not.

“This shot-gun of mine is the only one on the island,” he explained, “and we never came near enough them, before, to do anything with it.  It only carries a hundred yards.  The Opekians never make any show of resistance.  They are quite content if the Hillmen satisfy themselves with the outlying huts, as long as they leave them and the town alone; so they seldom come to close quarters.”

The four men walked on for a half an hour or so, in silence, peering eagerly on every side; but it was not until they had left the woods and marched out into the level stretch of grassy country, that they came upon the enemy.  The Hillmen were about forty in number, and were as savage and ugly-looking giants as any in a picture book.  They had captured a dozen cows and goats, and were driving them on before them, as they advanced further upon the village.  When they saw the four men, they gave a mixed chorus of cries and yells, and some of them stopped, and others ran forward, shaking their spears, and shooting their broad arrows into the ground before them.  A tall, gray-bearded, muscular old man, with a skirt of feathers about him, and necklaces of bones and animals’ claws around his bare chest, ran in front of them, and seemed to be trying to make them approach more slowly.

“Is that Messenwah?” asked Gordon.

“Yes,” said Stedman; “he is trying to keep them back.  I don’t believe he ever saw a white man before.”

“Stedman,” said Albert, speaking quickly, “give your gun to Bradley, and go forward with your arms in the air, and waving your handkerchief, and tell them in their language that the King is coming.  If they go at you, Bradley and I will kill a goat or two, to show them what we can do with the rifles; and if that don’t stop them, we will shoot at their legs; and if that don’t stop them—­I guess you’d better come back, and we’ll all run.”

Stedman looked at Albert, and Albert looked at Stedman, and neither of them winced or flinched.

“Is this another of my secretary’s duties?” asked the younger boy.

“Yes,” said the consul; “but a resignation is always in order.  You needn’t go if you don’t like it.  You see, you know the language and I don’t, but I know how to shoot, and you don’t.”

“That’s perfectly satisfactory,” said Stedman, handing his gun to old Bradley.  “I only wanted to know why I was to be sacrificed, instead of one of the Bradleys.  It’s because I know the language.  Bradley, Sr., you see the evil results of a higher education.  Wish me luck, please,” he said, “and for goodness’ sake,” he added impressively, “don’t waste much time shooting goats.”