blinding flash of lightning and an electrical shock that pitched Dawson headlong. The top of the palm tree had been hit and knocked off, leaving the stump above the hut burning like a gigantic torch.
I was too dazed for several minutes to speak or move, and my companion was scarcely less affected. Then, however, Dawson leaped up to finish his work.
"Free!" I cried, as the vines snapped asunder, and hand in hand we ran for one of the hut openings. A dozen feet away lay the top of the palm tree, blazing furiously and spluttering in the never-ending downpour. By this uncertain light we saw that the village street was deserted.
Where to go? was now the burning question. I looked at the first mate and he looked at me. Both of us realized only too well what a false move might mean.
"That's south—the way we want to go," he said, throwing out his hand. "Come on," and off we set, among the huts and across a patch of low brush. We were less than a hundred yards off when a savage yell told us that our escape had been discovered.
"We've got to leg it now, my boy!" ejaculated Tom Dawson. "Oh, if only I had that pistol of mine!"
"And if I only had mine too," I added. All
