Captured by the Arabs. Foster James H.

situation. Then he again turned to Mr. Holton and muttered something in the native tongue.

      That Bob’s father understood was evidenced by the look of surprise that came on his face. A moment later he turned to his friends.

      “He says Fekmah is wanted by a friend,” Mr. Holton said. “Won’t say any more. I don’t know what to make of it.”

      “A friend?” Fekmah gasped. “Why, I know no person here. What could it mean?”

      Again the stranger said something in Arabic and motioned for his objective to come out.

      For a moment Fekmah was thoughtful. Then he decided to investigate.

      “I will be back in short minutes,” he said and walked toward the door.

      “Wait a minute,” called Dr. Kirshner. “I’m going with you.”

      “And I, too,” cried Bob, getting up from his chair.

      Joe also put in a request, but the archæologist shook his head.

      “Two more are enough,” he said quietly, as he and Bob followed the Arab down the hall.

      “Be careful,” warned Mr. Lewis, as they reached the stairs. “There’s no telling what that fellow may want.”

      They reached the street and were directed around the corner and up a narrow byway, the stranger remaining several yards in the van.

      “Keep a ready hand on your automatic,” whispered Dr. Kirshner to Bob. “Something may happen in a short time now.”

      “Do you believe Fekmah is really wanted by friends?” the youth asked, glancing about as if he expected any minute to be confronted by a band of desperate characters.

      “Beyond me,” was the reply. “But I believe it would be safer to say no than yes. But there is a possibility that he met someone and has forgotten about it.”

      “What could they want of him? It all seems funny to me.”

      On they went, now upward by a gently sloping street that was so crooked it seemed to have no outlet.

      Suddenly the street stopped at a narrow, winding stairway that led almost straight up. All about were crowded houses of clay, dirty and weather-beaten and suggesting that only the very poorest of Arabs lived there.

      Having made sure that the others were following him, the stranger led the way up the stairs. At the head was a small door, and this was opened for them to go inside.

      But they hesitated.

      “Ask him what he wants,” directed Bob. “There could be anything in there.”

      Dr. Kirshner turned to the Arab and in a stern voice put the question before him.

      The latter surveyed the American closely, then said in the native tongue:

      “I wish nothing of you. It is Fekmah who is wanted. But if you and your friend must intrude, you may come in.”

      The man’s attitude did not win the friendship of the explorers, but chiefly because they were at a loss to know what to do next they followed him inside.

      A moment later the door was closed and they found themselves in a sort of twilight.

      As soon as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they made out four figures sitting in the corner of the room. The bare floor alone served the place of chairs, and the men seemed comfortable. Bob at once formed the conclusion that these Arabs were of the same type as the stranger who escorted them here, and felt a bit uneasy. He would have felt much better with a hand on his gun, but this would have aroused the suspicions of the natives. Nevertheless he kept on guard for any treachery. If it came to a fight, he knew that it would be two to five, for Fekmah was, in his age, not capable of taking part.

      None of the Arabs was able to speak English, evidently, but Dr. Kirshner knew the native language from his previous visits to North Africa. And he promised to translate occasionally to Bob.

      But a moment later it was plain that there was little translating to be done, for one of the Arabs said something to Fekmah and motioned for him to come into the next room. The Americans were to remain where they were.

      “I don’t like this,” muttered Dr. Kirshner, as he and Bob were told to be seated on the floor. “Anything may happen to him in there.”

      “Suppose we go with him,” suggested Bob.

      The archæologist nodded. He arose from his chair and started to follow, but one of the Arabs gently pushed him back.

      “It is Fekmah who is wanted,” the fellow said in a queer bass voice. “You will wait here. It will only be a moment.”

      Dr. Kirshner had half a notion to push through and follow his Arab friend, but he changed his mind and sat down with Bob on the floor.

      “What’s the big idea of all this?” the youth asked in a puzzled voice. “They trying to double-cross us or something?”

      The archæologist did not answer, for he felt all too sure that something serious was wrong. But what was there to do?

      There was no conversation between the archæologist and the natives, for each seemed busy with his thoughts. Bob was extremely grave, and he wondered what was taking place in the adjoining room. Perhaps the Arabs wished to sell Fekmah something and did not wish to be thwarted by the whites. Or perhaps they wanted to engage themselves as guides on the coming expedition and knew they would have a better chance with Fekmah than with the Americans. But whatever it was, Bob felt uneasy. If their friend did not return before long he would go after him, the youth thought.

      “We’ll wait a few more minutes,” said Dr. Kirshner. “Then – ”

      “Listen!” commanded Bob. “What was that?”

      “I didn’t hear anything. What – ”

      “There it is again. Sounds like a muffled cry for help. It’s – it’s Fekmah!”

      CHAPTER V

      A Fight for Freedom

      BOB was on his feet in an instant and dashed toward the door to the next room. But two of the Arabs were there first. With a catlike quickness they drew knives and advanced on the Americans. The other two natives came at them from the side.

      “What does this mean?” demanded Dr. Kirshner, looking from one to the other, his black eyes snapping with anger.

      “You are going to die!” was the grim answer from an evil-looking, flat-nosed fellow. He moved forward a step or two.

      Bob did not understand the man but sensed that something sinister was to take place. He noticed the look of anger and anxiety on the scientist’s face.

      With a sudden movement he drew out his automatic, at the same time stepping back several feet. His action was so quick that the Arabs were taken by surprise and stood for several moments trying to grasp the true meaning of it all.

      “Now get back!” he commanded, flashing the shining pistol in their faces. “Take away their knives,” he said to Dr. Kirshner. “I’ve got them covered. Tell them I’ll shoot the first man who makes a forward move.”

      The scientist did as directed and found that, beyond a vicious-looking knife, they were unarmed.

      “You stay here and guard them,” said Bob. “I’m going in and see what’s happened to Fekmah.”

      He moved over to the door and opened it. Holding the pistol in readiness, he walked slowly in the room. One glance told him that no one was in sight. But there was a door leading into a large alcove, and it was possible that he could find someone there. Perhaps the Arabs were in hiding, having sensed that they were in danger.

      Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, Bob made his way to the closed door. He stood for several moments wondering what to do next. Then he decided to make a bold move.

      Clutching his tiny automatic tightly, he took hold of the knob and with a sudden twist threw open the door.

      The