the
moss-grown stone, but while Holman and I reached forward with the
intention of gripping the climber by the throat, Kaipi upset our plans
by driving the blade of the knife into the back of the huge paw that was
endeavouring to get a grip!

A tremendous howl of pain came from the owner of the hand, the pinioned
member was torn from beneath the blade, and as we pushed our heads over
the edge, the top climber fell backward, swept his companion from the
pillar, and the pair struck the coral rock beneath the table with a thud
that was suggestive of broken bones. The native with the skewered hand
picked himself up and dashed toward the trees, but the other remained at
the foot of the pillar, and his position led us to believe that his neck
had been broken by the fall.

"My knife!" cried Kaipi. "He knocked my knife down!"

The Fijian swung himself over the edge, and with monkey-like agility
slipped down the pillar. He shouted up to us that he thought that the
man on the ground was dead, but having found his precious knife, he
proceeded to set all doubts upon the matter at rest.

"Soma better dodge that little fire eater," muttered Holman. "I thought
him a coward last night, but it looks as if he's a fighter when once he
gets started."

As we were unable to slip down the stone pillar in the same manner as
the natives, we found the piece of rope by which the three dancers had
hauled us up to the top, and making it secure upon a stone projection we
lowered ourselves to the ground.

"Now," said Holman, "we must make a new start, and if we get beat in
this round we deserve all that the big fiend who has brought all this
trouble about can do to us. Kaipi, you're a friend of mine for all time.
Shake hands."

The grinning Fijian shook hands with both of us, and we moved toward the
trees, heading in the direction of the spot where Leith had kicked us so
vigorously a few hours before.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII

BARBARA'S MESSENGER

We had a healthy respect for the deviltry of Leith and his friends as we
turned our backs upon the lonely throne of the centipede, but the cry of
"Father" which Edith Herndon had uttered was still ringing in our ears,
and we were anxious to get within hitting distance of the big,
treacherous ruffian. A mental review of the engagements made us feel
rather light-hearted as we pushed through the tangle. If there were only
six native dancers upon the island at the opening of the confli