The scare had proved effectual.  Never a sign of the natives was seen during the three hours’ march to the fort.  When they reached it, Dr. Smith hastened at once to assure himself that his specimens and note-books were safe.  Tired out, the whole party lay down to rest.

“We’ll go and meet the gunboat, Roddy,” said Smith, when the aeroplane alighted.  “Captain Warren will be glad to hear that all is well.”

They set off, flew down the coast, and in a few minutes descried the gunboat, apparently about fifteen miles off.

“All well, sir,” shouted Smith, as he met the vessel.  “I’ll pilot you to the place.”

“You have put my nose out of joint,” replied the captain, “and done my men out of a fight, too.  Well, I’m glad Underhill is safe.  How far have we to go?”

“An hour will do it, sir.  I’ll keep you company; a jog-trot will be a pleasant change after my scamper.”

“Diable, mister,” said Rodier; “that will waste an immense quantity of petrol, and we have none to spare.”

“You’re right, Roddy.  I daresay we have used in the last few hours enough to carry us to Samoa.”

He explained to Captain Warren the necessity he was under of economizing fuel, and promised to fire a rifle as a guide to him when the gunboat came abreast of the fort.  Then he returned at full speed, brought the aeroplane to the ground within the enclosure, and having arranged with his brother to give the signal when the gunboat came in sight, lay down beside Rodier and was fast asleep in an instant.

He was wakened by a roar of cheering when Captain Warren, with some of his men, the four members of the crew of the Albatross, and a corpulent little civilian about fifty years old, marched into the camp, bringing a load of provisions.  A huge bonfire was kindled in the centre of the enclosure, and round it the whole company gathered to enjoy a royal feast.  Darkness had sunk over the land; the flames cast ruddy reflections upon their features; and no one observing their cheerful expression, or listening to their merry chat, would have suspected that, a few hours before, half of the party had been face to face with a terrible death.  Smith was the hero of the day.  Lieutenant Underhill got up and proposed his health; the toast was drunk in wine, beer, and water, and some wild dogs that had been allured from the forest by the glare fled howling when the mariners raised their lusty voices to the tune of “For he’s a jolly good fellow.”  Nor was Rodier forgotten.  Tom Smith called for the honours for him also; he was acclaimed in shouts of “Good old Frenchie!” “Well done, matey,” and sundry other boisterous tokens of applause.

Nothing would content the party but that Smith should tell the story of his flight.  They listened spell-bound as he related his experiences at the various stopping-places, and his adventures at sea.  When the story was finished, the cheers broke out again, and the stout little man who accompanied Captain Warren’s party, and whose spectacles gleamed with good humour, rose to his feet and cleared his throat.