e a 'Heave-ho-me-Bully-Boy sailor!' able to spot a place
from afar off by the direction of the sun at midnight. Gee! This is
regular stuff, Barry. Mystery, secret gates, skull and crossbones, and
nobody home! Knock again."

Little heaved with all his strength at a huge boulder, intent upon
gaining entry. Barry coolly placed his foot on the stone, hauled Little
away, and fell to work with his knife on the wattles which bound
together the bamboos of the stockade. Then the gate was opened suddenly,
and a yellow dwarf with jagged teeth that chattered bade the visitors
enter.

"Gordon Tuuan he see you. Come." The custodian of the gate turned and
dog-trotted up to a large, low building. One rambling, cane-walled hut
filled most of the space inside the stockade, and under the same wide,
leaf-thatched roof were all the departments of the post. A few small
native huts were scattered along the fence, but apparently Gordon
believed in working and living as nearly as possible in the same spot.
Their guide brought Barry and Little to the main hut, ushered them into
a dim, screened veranda and disappeared, leaving them blinking in
semi-darkness.

"Come in!" invited an unseen host in a high-pitched, quavering voice.

"Come in! Where?" echoed Barry, his hearty sea-bellow shaking the flimsy
structure. "If that's Gordon, come out, or have the civility to remember
that we haven't got bat's eyes. We're from Batavia, Houten, and--"

"All right, old chaps, all right. Sorry to keep you waiting. Wasn't
expecting you so soon. I'll be out right away."

On the heels of the announcement came the clink of glass and a shuffle
of chairs. Then softly slippered feet shambled out of the darkness, and
Gordon stood revealed as well as the light would allow.

Little and the skipper felt a burning curiosity as to the man they were
sent to deal with, and pity was the feeling that entered Barry's breast
now they were face to face. The trader had the frame of an athlete and a
head and face that must in years gone by have caused many a flutter in
feminine hearts: But now the eyes were bleary and sunken from alcohol,
the high forehead was hidden under a mat of dirty, nondescript hair
that was once undoubtedly a glorious tawny blond. The wide shoulders
stooped, the back bent forward from the waist, and the hands, yet
retaining hints of care, trembled at the ends of bony, jerky arms. And,
in the half-light of the veranda, the sodden features smirked and
gr