"Yes, into strips, of course; now bring them here.

Tim, you tie the fellow--yes, do a good job; I'll hold him.

Lie still, Kirby, or I shall have to give you the butt of this gun in the face." He made one last effort to break free, and, as my hand attempted to close on his throat, the clutching fingers caught the band of his shirt, and ripped it wide open.

There, directly before me, a scar across his hairy, exposed chest, was a broad, black mark, a tribal totem.

I stared down at it, recognizing its significance.
"By Heaven, Tim, look at this!" I cried.