Into the Primitive
by Robert Ames Bennet · English · Gutenberg #33903 · 369,902 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Into the Primitive
Author: Robert Ames Bennet
Illustrator: Allen Tupper True
Release date: October 25, 2010 [eBook #33903]
Most recently updated: December 8, 2023
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INTO THE PRIMITIVE ***
[Illustration: "It Can't Be that You Want to Go Back to All Those
Society Shams, After You've Seen Real Life!"]
INTO THE PRIMITIVE
By ROBERT AMES BENNET
AUTHOR OF
"For the White Christ," "Thyra," Etc.
With Frontispiece in Colors
By ALLEN T. TRUE
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers--New York
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1908
Published April 11, 1908
Second Edition, May 9, 1908
Third Edition, Aug. 1, 1908
_To the man and to the beast;_
_To the girl, the snake, the blossom;_
_To fever and fire and fear;_
_To hurricane blast and storm within;_
_To bloody fang and venomed tooth;_
_To love, to hate, to pain, to joy,--_
_For of such is Life,_
_In the Primitive--and out._
By Mr. Bennet
FOR THE WHITE CHRIST. A Story of the Days of Charlemagne.
Illustrations in full color by the Kinneys. Twentieth thousand. $1.50.
A. C. McClurg & Co., Publishers
CONTENTS
I. WAVE-TOSSED AND CASTAWAY 11
II. WORSE THAN WILDERNESS 18
III. THE WORTH OF FIRE 29
IV. A JOURNEY IN DESOLATION 40
V. THE RE-ASCENT OF MAN 56
VI. MAN AND GENTLEMAN 67
VII. AROUND THE HEADLAND 76
VIII. THE CLUB AGE 87
IX. THE LEOPARDS' DEN 105
X. PROBLEMS IN WOODCRAFT 123
XI. A DESPOILED WARDROBE 139
XII. SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST 147
XIII. THE MARK OF THE BEAST 159
XIV. FEVER AND FIRE AND FEAR 174
XV. WITH BOW AND CLUB 191
XVI. THE SAVAGE MANIFEST 201
XVII. THE SERPENT STRIKES 212
XVIII. THE EAVESDROPPER CAUGHT 226
XIX. AN OMINOUS LULL 235
XX. THE HURRICANE BLAST 251
XXI. WRECKAGE AND SALVAGE 263
XXII. UNDERSTANDING AND MISUNDERSTANDING 272
XXIII. THE END OF THE WORLD 284
XXIV. A LION LEADS THEM 299
XXV. IN DOUBLE SALVATION 314
INTO THE PRIMITIVE
CHAPTER I
WAVE-TOSSED AND CASTAWAY
The beginning was at Cape Town, when Blake and Winthrope boarded the
steamer as fellow passengers with Lady Bayrose and her party.
This was a week after Winthrope had arrived on the tramp steamer from
India, and her Ladyship had explained to Miss Leslie that it was as
well for her not to be too hasty in accepting his attentions. To be
sure, he was an Englishman, his dress and manners were irreproachable,
and he was in the prime of ripened youth. Yet Lady Bayrose was too
conscientious a chaperon to be fully satisfied with her countryman's
bare assertion that he was engaged on a diplomatic mission requiring
reticence regarding his identity. She did not see why this should
prevent him from confiding in _her_.
Notwithstanding this, Winthrope came aboard ship virtually as a member of
her Ladyship's party. He was so quick, so thoughtful of her comfort,
and paid so much more attention to her than to Miss Leslie, that her
Ladyship had decided to tolerate him, even before Blake became a factor
in the situation.
From the moment he crossed the gangway the American engineer entered
upon a daily routine of drinking and gambling, varied only by attempts
to strike up an off-hand acquaintance with Miss Leslie. This was
Winthrope's opportunity, and his clever frustration of what Lady
Bayrose termed "that low bounder's impudence" served to install
him in the good graces of her Ladyship as well as in the favor of
the American heiress.
Such, at least, was what Winthrope intimated to the persistent engineer
with a superciliousness of tone and manner that would have stung even a
British lackey to resentment. To Blake it was supremely galling. He
could not rejoin in kind, and the slightest attempt at physical
retort would have meant irons and confinement. It was a British
ship. Behind Winthrope was Lady Bayrose; behind her Ladyship, as a
matter of course, was all the despotic authority of the captain. In
the circumstances, it was not surprising that the American drank
heavier after each successive goading.
Meantime the ship, having touched at Port Natal, steamed on up the East
Coast, into the Mozambique Channel.
On the day of the cyclone, Blake had withdrawn into his stateroom with
a number of bottles, and throughout that fearful afternoon was blissfully
unconscious of the danger. Even when the steamer went on the reef, he
was only partially roused by the shock.
He took a long pull from a quart flask of whiskey, placed the flask
with great care in his hip pocket, and lurched out through the open
doorway. There he reeled headlong against the mate, who had rushed below
with three of the crew to bring up Miss Leslie. The mate cursed him
virulently, and in the same breath ordered two of the men to fetch him
up on deck.
The sea was breaking over the steamer in torrents; but between waves
Blake was dragged across to the side and flung over into the bottom of
the one remaining boat. He served as a cushion to break the fall of Miss
Leslie, who was tossed in after him. At the same time, Winthrope, frantic
with fear, scrambled into the bows and cut loose. One of the sailors
leaped, but fell short and went down within arm's length of Miss Leslie.
She and Winthrope saw the steamer slip from the reef and sink back into
deep water, carrying down in the vortex the mate and the few remaining
sailors. After that all was chaos to them. They were driven ashore before
the terrific gusts of the cyclone, blinded by the stinging spoondrift
to all else but the hell of breakers and coral reefs in whose midst
they swirled so dizzily. And through it all Blake lay huddled on the
bottom boards, gurgling blithely of spicy zephyrs and swaying hammocks.
There came the seemingly final moment when the boat went spinning stern
over prow. . . . .
Half sobered, Blake opened his eyes and stared solemnly about him. He
was given little time to take his bearings. A smother of broken surf
came seething up from one of the great breakers, to roll him over and
scrape him a little farther up the muddy shore. There the flood deposited
him for a moment, until it could gather force to sweep back and drag
him down again toward the roaring sea that had cast him up.
Blake objected,--not to the danger of being drowned, but to interference
with his repose. He had reached the obstinate stage. He grunted a
protest. . . . . Again the flood seethed up the shore, and rolled him
away from the danger. This was too much! He set his jaw, turned over,
and staggered to his feet. Instantly one of the terrific wind-blasts
struck his broad back and sent him spinning for yards. He brought up
in a shallow pool, beside a hummock.
Under the lee of the knoll lay Winthrope and Miss Leslie. Though
conscious, both were draggled and bruised and beaten to exhaustion.
They were together because they had come ashore together. When the boat
capsized, Miss Leslie had been flung against the Englishman, and they
had held fast to each other with the desperate clutch of drowning
persons. Neither of them ever recalled how they gained the shelter of
the hummock.
Blake, sitting waist-deep in the pool, blinked at them benignly with
his pale blue eyes, and produced the quart flask, still a third full of
whiskey.
"I shay, fren's," he observed, "ha' one on me. Won' cos' you
shent--notta re' shent!"
"You fuddled lout!" shouted Winthrope. "Come out of that pool."
"Wassama'er pool! Pool's allri'!"
The Englishman squinted through the driving scud at the intoxicated
man with an anxious frown. In all probability he felt no commiseration
for the American; but it was no light matter to be flung up barehanded
on the most unhealthful and savage stretch of the Mozambique coast, and
Blake might be able to help them out of their predicament. To leave
him in the pool was therefore not to be thought of. So soon as he had
drained his bottle, he would lie down, and that would be the end of
him. As any attempt to move him forcibly was out of the question, the
situation demanded that Winthrope justify his intimations of diplomatic
training. After considering the problem for several minutes, he met
it in a way that proved he was at least not lacking in shrewdness and
tact.
"See here, Blake," he called, in another lull between the shrieking
gusts, "the lady is fatigued. You're too much of a gentleman to ask
her to come over there."
It required some moments for this to penetrate Blake's fuddled brain.
After a futile attempt to gain his feet, he crawled out of the pool on
all fours, and, with tears in his eyes, pressed his flask upon Miss
Leslie. She shrank away from him, shuddering, and drew herself up in
a huddle of flaccid limbs and limp garments. Winthrope, however, not
only accepted the flask, but came near to draining it.
Blake squinted at the diminished contents, hesitated, and cast a glance
of maudlin gallantry at Miss Leslie. She lay coiled, closer than before,
in a draggled heap. Her posture suggested sleep. Blake stared at her,
the flask extended waveringly before him. Then he brought it to his lips,
and drained out the last drop.
"Time turn in," he mumbled, and sprawled full length in the brackish
ooze. Immediately he fell into a drunken stupor.
Winthrope, invigorated by the liquor, rose to his knees, and peered
around. It was impossible to face the scud and spoondrift from the
furious sea; but to leeward he caught a glimpse of a marsh flooded with
salt water, its reedy vegetation beaten flat by the storm. He himself was
beaten down by a terrific gust. Panting and trembling, he waited for
the wind to lull, in hope that he might obtain a clearer view of his
surroundings. Before he again dared rise to his feet, darkness swept
down with tropical suddenness and blurred out everything.
The effect of the whiskey soon passed, and Winthrope huddled between his
companions, drenched and exhausted. Though he could hear Miss Leslie
moaning, he was too miserable himself to inquire whether he could do
anything for her.
Presently he became aware that the wind was falling. The centre of the
cyclone had passed before the ship struck, and they were now in the
outermost circle of the vast whirlwind. With the consciousness of this
change for the better, Winthrope's fear-racked nerves relaxed, and he
fell into a heavy sleep.
CHAPTER II
WORSE THAN WILDERNESS
A wail from Miss Leslie roused the Englishman out of a dream in which he
had been swimming for life across a sea of boiling oil. He sat up and
gazed about him, half dazed. The cyclone had been followed by a dead
calm, and the sun, already well above the horizon, was blazing upon them
over the glassy surfaces of the dying swells with fierce heat.
Winthrope felt about for his hat. It had been blown off when, at the
striking of the steamer, he had rushed up on deck. As he remembered,
he straightened, and looked at his companions. Blake lay snoring where
he had first outstretched himself, sleeping the sleep of the just--and
of the drunkard. The girl, however, was already awake. She sat with her
hands clasped in her lap, while the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
"My--ah--dear Miss Genevieve, what is the matter?" exclaimed Winthrope.
"Matter? Do you ask, when we are here on this wretched coast, and may
not get away for weeks? Oh, I did so count on the London season this
year! Lady Bayrose promised that I should be among those presented."
"Well, I--ah--fancy, Lady Bayrose will do no more presenting--unless it
may be to the heavenly choir, you know."
"Why, what do you mean, Mr. Winthrope? You told me that she and the
maids had been put in the largest boat--"
"My dear Miss Genevieve, you must remember that I am a diplomat. It was
all quite sufficiently harrowing, I assure you. They were, indeed, put
into the largest boat--Beastly muddle!--While they waited for the mate to
fetch you, the boat was crushed alongside, and all in it drowned."
"Drowned!--drowned! Oh, dear Lady Bayrose! And she'd travelled so
much--oh, oh, it is horrible! Why did she persuade me to visit the Cape?
It was only to be with her--And then for us to start off for India, when
we might have sailed straight to England! Oh, it is horrible! horrible!
And my maid, and all--It cannot be possible!"
"Pray, do not excite yourself, my dear Miss Genevieve. Their troubles
are all over. Er--Gawd has taken them to Him, you know."
"But the pity of it! To be drowned--so far from home!"
"Ah, if that's all you're worrying about!--I must say I'd like to
know how we'll get a snack for breakfast. I'm hungry as a--er--groom."
"Eating! How can you think of eating, Mr. Winthrope--and all the others
drowned? This sun is becoming dreadfully hot. It is unbearable! Can you
not put up some kind of an awning?"
"Well, now, I must say, I was never much of a hand at such things, and
really I can't imagine what one could rig up. There might have been a
bit of sail in the boat, but one can't see a sign of it. I fancy it was
smashed."
Miss Leslie ventured a glance at Blake. Though still lying as he had
sprawled in his drunkenness, there was a comforting suggestion of power
in his broad shoulders and square jaw.
"Is he still--in that condition?"
"Must have slept it off by this time, and there's no more in the
flask," answered Winthrope. Reaching over with his foot, he pushed
against Blake's back.
"Huh! All right," grunted the sleeper, and sat up, as had Winthrope,
half dazed. Then he stared around him, and rose to his feet. "Well, what
in hell! Say, this is damn cheerful!"
"I fancy we are in a nasty fix. But I say, my man, there is a woman
present, and your language, you know--"
Blake turned and fixed the Englishman with a cold stare.
"Look here, you bloomin' lud," he said, "there's just one thing
you're going to understand, right here and now. I'm not your man,
and we're not going to have any of that kind of blatter. Any fool
can see we're in a tight hole, and we're like to keep company for a
while--probably long as we last."
"What--ah--may I ask, do you mean by that?"
Blake laughed harshly, and pointed from the reef-strewn sea to the vast
stretches of desolate marsh. Far inland, across miles of brackish lagoons
and reedy mud-flats, could be seen groups of scrubby, half-leafless
trees; ten or twelve miles to the southward a rocky headland jutted out
into the water; otherwise there was nothing in sight but sea and swamp.
If it could not properly be termed a sea-view, it was at least a very
wet landscape.
"Fine prospect," remarked Blake, dryly. "We'll be in luck if the
fever don't get the last of us inside a month; and as for you two,
you'd have as much show of lasting a month as a toad with a rattlesnake,
if it wasn't for Tom Blake,--that's my name--Tom Blake,--and as
long as this shindy lasts, you're welcome to call me Tom or Blake,
whichever suits. But understand, we're not going to have any more
of your bloody, bloomin' English condescension. Aboard ship you had
the drop on me, and could pile on dog till the cows came home. Here
I'm Blake, and you're Winthrope."
"Believe me, Mr. Blake, I quite appreciate the--ah--situation. And now,
I fancy that, instead of wasting time--"
"It's about time you introduced me to the lady," interrupted Blake,
and he stared at them half defiantly, yet with a twinkle in his eyes.
Miss Leslie flushed. Winthrope swore softly, and bit his lip. Aboard
ship, backed by Lady Bayrose and the captain, he had goaded the American
at pleasure. Now, however, the situation was reversed. Both title and
authority had been swept away by the storm, and he was left to shift
for himself against the man who had every reason to hate him for his
overbearing insolence. Worse still, both he and Miss Leslie were now
dependent upon the American, in all probability for life itself. It was a
bitter pill and hard to swallow.
Blake was not slow to observe the Englishman's hesitancy. He grinned.
"Every dog has his day, and I guess this is mine," he said. "Take
your time, if it comes hard. I can imagine it's a pretty stiff dose
for your ludship. But why in--why in frozen hades an American lady should
object to an introduction to a countryman who's going to do his level
best to save her pretty little self from the hyenas--well, it beats me."
Winthrope flushed redder than the girl.
"Miss Leslie, Mr. Blake," he murmured, hoping to put an end to the
situation.
But yet Blake persisted. He bowed, openly exultant.
"You see, Miss," he said, "I know the correct thing quite as much as
your swells. I knew all along you were Jenny Leslie. I ran a survey for
your dear papa when he was manipulating the Q. T. Railroad, and he did
me out of my pay."
"Oh, but Mr. Blake, I am sure it must be a mistake; I am sure that if
it is explained to papa--"
"Yes; we'll cable papa to-night. Meantime, we've something else to
do. Suppose you two get a hustle on yourselves, and scrape up something
to eat. I'm going out to see what's left of that blamed old tub."
"Surely you'll not venture to swim out so far!" protested Winthrope.
"I saw the steamer sink as we cast off."
"Looks like a mast sticking up out there. Maybe some of the rigging is
loose."
"But the sharks! These waters swarm with the vile creatures. You must
not risk your life!"
"'Cause why? If I do, the babes in the woods will be left without even
the robins to cover them, poor things! But cheer up!--maybe the mud-hens
will do it with lovely water-lilies."
"Please, Mr. Blake, do not be so cruel!" sobbed Miss Leslie, her tears
starting afresh. "The sun makes my head ache dreadfully, and I have no
hat or shade, and I'm becoming so thirsty!"
"And you think you've only to wait, and half a dozen stewards will
come running with parasols and ice water. Neither you nor Winthrope seem
to 've got your eyes open. Just suppose you get busy and do something.
Winthrope, chase yourself over the mud, and get together a mess of fish
that are not too dead. Must be dozens, after the blow. As for you, Miss
Jenny, I guess you can pick up some reeds, and rig a headgear out of this
handkerchief-- Wait a moment. Put on my coat, if you don't want to be
broiled alive through the holes of that peek-a-boo."
"But I say, Blake--" began Winthrope.
"Don't say--do!" rejoined Blake; and he started down the muddy shore.
Though the tide was at flood, there was now no cyclone to drive the
sea above the beach, and Blake walked a quarter of a mile before he
reached the water's edge. There was little surf, and he paused only a
few moments to peer out across the low swells before he commenced to
strip.
Winthrope and Miss Leslie had been watching his movements; now the girl
rose in a little flurry of haste, and set to gathering reeds. Winthrope
would have spoken, but, seeing her embarrassment, smiled to himself, and
began strolling about in search of fish.
It was no difficult search. The marshy ground was strewn with dead
sea-creatures, many of which were already shrivelling and drying in
the sun. Some of the fish had a familiar look, and Winthrope turned them
over with the tip of his shoe. He even went so far as to stoop to pick
up a large mullet; but shrank back, repulsed by its stiffness and the
unnatural shape into which the sun was warping it.
He found himself near the beach, and stood for half an hour or more
watching the black dot far out in the water,--all that was to be seen
of Blake. The American, after wading off-shore another quarter of a
mile, had reached swimming depth, and was heading out among the reefs
with steady, vigorous strokes. Half a mile or so beyond him Winthrope
could now make out the goal for which he was aiming,--the one remaining
topmast of the steamer.
"By Jove, these waters are full of sharks!" murmured Winthrope, staring
at the steadily receding dot until it disappeared behind the wall of surf
which spumed up over one of the outer reefs.
A call from Miss Leslie interrupted his watch, and he hastened to
rejoin her. After several failures, she had contrived to knot Blake's
handkerchief to three or four reeds in the form of a little sunshade. Her
shoulders were protected by Blake's coat. It made a heavy wrap, but
it shut out the blistering sun-rays, which, as Blake had foreseen, had
quickly begun to burn the girl's delicate skin through her open-work
bodice.
Thus protected, she was fairly safe from the sun. But the sun was by no
means the worst feature of the situation. While Winthrope was yet several
yards distant, the girl began to complain to him. "I'm so thirsty,
Mr. Winthrope! Where is there any water? Please get me a drink at once,
Mr. Winthrope!"
"But, my dear Miss Leslie, there is no water. These pools are all
sea-water. I must say, I'm deuced dry myself. I can't see why that
cad should go off and leave us like this, when we need him most."
"Indeed, it is a shame--Oh, I'm so thirsty! Do you think it would help
if we ate something?"
"Make it all the worse. Besides, how could we cook anything? All these
reeds are green, or at least water-soaked."
"But Mr, Blake said to gather some fish. Had you not best--"
"He can pick up all he wants. I shall not touch the beastly things."
"Then I suppose there is nothing to do but wait for him."
"Yes, if the sharks do not get him."
Miss Leslie uttered a little moan, and Winthrope, seeing that she was
on the verge of tears, hastened to reassure her. "Don't worry about
him, Miss Genevieve! He'll soon return, with nothing worse than a
blistered back. Fellows of that sort are born to hang, you know."
"But if he should be--if anything should happen to him!"
Winthrope shrugged his shoulders, and drew out his silver cigarette
case. It was more than half full, and he was highly gratified to find
that neither the cigarettes nor the vesta matches in the cover had been
reached by the wet.
"By Jove, here's luck!" he exclaimed, and he bowed to Miss Leslie.
"Pardon me, but if you have no objections--"
The girl nodded as a matter of form, and Winthrope hastened to light the
cigarette already in his fingers. The smoke by no means tended to lessen
the dryness of his mouth; yet it put him in a reflective mood, and in
thinking over what he had read of shipwrecked parties, he remembered that
a pebble held in the mouth is supposed to ease one's thirst.
To be sure, there was not a sign of a pebble within miles of where they
sat; but after some reflection, it occurred to him that one of his steel
keys might do as well. At first Miss Leslie was reluctant to try the
experiment, and only the increasing dryness of her mouth forced her to
seek the promised relief. Though it failed to quench her thirst, she
was agreeably surprised to find that the little flat bar of metal eased
her craving to a marked degree.
Winthrope now thought to rig a shade as Miss Leslie had done, out of
reeds and his handkerchief, for the sun was scorching his unprotected
head. Thus sheltered, the two crouched as comfortably as they could
upon the half-dried crest of the hummock, and waited impatiently for
the return of Blake.
CHAPTER III
THE WORTH OF FIRE
Though the sea within the reefs was fast smoothing to a glassy plain
in the dead calm, they did not see Blake on his return until he struck
shallow water and stood up to wade ashore. The tide had begun to ebb
before he started landward, and though he was a powerful swimmer, the
long pull against the current had so tired him that when he took to
wading he moved at a tortoise-like gait.
"The bloomin' loafer!" commented Winthrope. He glanced quickly about,
and at sight of Miss Leslie's arching brows, hastened to add: "Beg
pardon! He--ah--reminds me so much of a navvy, you know."
Miss Leslie made no reply.
At last Blake was out of the water and toiling up the muddy beach to
the spot where he had left his clothes. While dressing he seemed to
recover from his exertions in the water, for the moment he had finished,
he sprang to his feet and came forward at a brisk pace.
As he approached, Winthrope waved his fifth cigarette at him with languid
enthusiasm, and called out as heartily as his dry lips would permit:
"I say, Blake, deuced glad the sharks didn't get you!"
"Sharks?--bah! All you have to do is to splash a little, and they haul
off."
"How about the steamer, Mr. Blake?" asked Miss Leslie, turning to face
him.
"All under but the maintopmast--curse it!--wire rigging at that!
Couldn't even get a bolt."
"A bolt?"
"Not a bolt; and here we are as good as naked on this infernal-- Hey,
you! what you doing with that match? Light your cigarette--light it!--
Damnation!"
Heedless of Blake's warning cry, Winthrope had struck his last vesta,
and now, angry and bewildered, he stood staring while the little taper
burned itself out. With an oath, Blake sprang to catch it as it dropped
from between Winthrope's fingers. But he was too far away. It fell among
the damp rushes, spluttered, and flared out.
For a moment Blake knelt, staring at the rushes as though stupefied; then
he sprang up before Winthrope, his bronzed face purple with anger.
"Where's your matchbox? Got any more?" he demanded.
"Last one, I fancy--yes; last one, and there are still two cigarettes.
But look here, Blake, I can't tolerate your talking so deucedly--"
"You idiot! you--you-- Hell! and every one for cigarettes!"
From a growl Blake's voice burst into a roar of fury, and he sprang upon
Winthrope like a wild beast. His hands closed upon the Englishman's
throat, and he began to shake him about, paying no heed to the blows
his victim showered upon his face and body, blows which soon began to
lessen in force.
Terror-stricken, Miss Leslie put her hands over her eyes, and began
to scream--the piercing shriek that will unnerve the strongest man.
Blake paused as though transfixed, and as the half-suffocated Englishman
struggled in his grasp, he flung him on the ground, and turned to the
screaming girl.
"Stop that squawking!" he said. The girl cowed down. "So; that's
better. Next time keep your mouth shut."
"You--you brute!"
"Good! You've got a little spunk, eh?"
"You coward--to attack a man not half your strength!"
"Steady, steady, young lady! I'm warm enough yet; I've still half a
mind to wring his fool neck."
"But why should you be so angry! What has he done, that you--"
"Why--why? Lord! what hasn't he done! This coast fairly swarms
with beasts. We've not the smell of a gun; and now this idiot--this
dough-head--has gone and thrown away our only chance--fire--and on his
measly cigarettes!" Blake choked with returning rage.
Winthrope, still panting for breath, began to creep away, at the
same time unclasping a small penknife. He was white with fear; but
his gray eyes--which on shipboard Blake had never seen other than
offensively supercilious--now glinted in a manner that served to alter
the American's mood.
"That'll do," he said. "Come here and show me that knife."
"I'll show it you where it will do the most good," muttered Winthrope,
rising hastily to repel the expected attack.
"So you've got a little sand, too," said Blake, almost good-naturedly.
"Say, that's not so bad. We'll call it quits on the matches. Though
how you could go and throw them away--"
"Deuce take it, man! How should I know? I've never before been in a
wreck."
"Neither have I--this kind. But I tell you, we've got to keep our think
tanks going. It's a guess if we see to-morrow, and that's no joke. Now
do you wonder I got hot?"
"Indeed, no! I've been an ass, and here's my hand to it--if you really
mean it's quits."
"It's quits all right, long as you don't run out of sand," responded
Blake, and he gripped the other's soft hand until the Englishman winced.
"So; that's settled. I've got a hot temper, but I don't hold grudges.
Now, where're your fish?"
"I--well, they were all spoiled."
"Spoiled?"
"The sun had shrivelled them."
"And you call that spoiled! We're like to eat them rotten before we're
through with this picnic. How about the pools?"
"Pools? Do you know, Blake, I never thought of the pools. I stopped to
watch you, and then we were so anxious about you--"
Blake grunted, and turned on his heel to wade into the half-drained pool
in whose midst he had been deposited by the hurricane.
Two or three small fish lay faintly wriggling on the surface. As Blake
splashed through the water to seize them, his foot struck against a
living body which floundered violently and flashed a brilliant forked
tail above the muddy water. Blake sprang over the fish, which was
entangled in the reeds, and with a kick, flung it clear out upon the
ground.
"A coryphene!" cried Winthrope, and he ran forward to stare at the
gorgeously colored prize.
"Coryphene?" repeated Blake, following his example. "Good to eat?"
"Fine as salmon. This is only a small one, but--"
"Fifteen pounds, if an ounce!" cried Blake, and he thrust his hand in
his pocket. There was a moment's silence, and Winthrope, glancing up,
saw the other staring in blank dismay.
"What's up!" he asked.
"Lost my knife."
"When?--in the pool? If we felt about--"
"No; aboard ship, or in the surf--"
"Here is my knife."
"Yes; almost big enough to whittle a match! Mine would have done us some
good."
"It is the best steel."
"All right; let's see you cut up the fish."
"But you know, Blake, I shouldn't know how to go about it. I never did
such a thing."
"And you, Miss Jenny? Girls are supposed to know about cooking."
"I never cooked anything in all my life, Mr. Blake, and it's
alive,--and--and I am very thirsty, Mr. Blake!"
"Lord!" commented Blake. "Give me that knife."
Though the blade was so small, the American's hand was strong. After
some little haggling, the coryphene was killed and dressed. Blake washed
both it and his hands in the pool, and began to cut slices of flesh from
the fish's tail.
"We have no fire," Winthrope reminded him, flushing at the word.
"That's true," assented Blake, in a cheerful tone, and he offered
Winthrope two of the pieces of raw flesh. "Here's your breakfast. The
trimmed piece is for Miss Leslie."
"But it's raw! Really, I could not think of eating raw fish. Could you,
Miss Leslie?"
Miss Leslie shuddered. "Oh, no!--and I'm so thirsty I could not eat
anything."
"You bet you can!" replied Blake. "Both of you take that fish, and go
to chewing. It's the stuff to ease your thirst while we look for water.
Good Lord!--in a week you'll be glad to eat raw snake. Finnicky over
clean fish, when you swallow canvas-back all but raw, and beef running
blood, and raw oysters with their stomachs full of disintegrated animal
matter, to put it politely! You couldn't tell rattlesnake broth from
chicken, and dog makes first-rate veal--when you've got to eat it. I've
had it straight from them that know, that over in France they eat snails
and fish-worms. It's all a matter of custom or the style."
"To be sure, the Japanese eat raw fish," admitted Winthrope.
"Yes; and you'd swallow your share of it if you had an invite to a
swell dinner in Tokio. Go on now, both of you. It's no joke, I tell
you. You've got to eat, if you expect to get to water before night.
Understand? See that headland south? Well, it's a hundred to one
we'll not find water short of there, and if we make it by night, we'll
be doing better than I figure from the look of these bogs. Now go to
chewing. That's it! That's fine, Miss Jenny!"
Miss Leslie had forced herself to take a nibble of the raw fish. The
flavor proved less repulsive than she had expected, and its moisture was
so grateful to her parched mouth that she began to eat with eagerness.
Not to be outdone, Winthrope promptly followed her lead. Blake had
already cut himself a second slice. After he had cut more for his
companions, he began to look them over with a closeness that proved
embarrassing to Miss Leslie.
"Here's more of the good stuff," he said. "While you're chewing
it, we'll sort of take stock. Everybody shell out everything. Here's
my outfit--three shillings, half a dozen poker chips, and not another
blessed-- Say, what's become of that whiskey flask? Have you seen my
flask?"
"Here it is, right beside me, Mr. Blake," answered Miss Leslie. "But
it is empty."
"Might be worse! What you got?--hair-pins, watch? No pocket, I suppose?"
"None; and no watch. Even most of my pins are gone," replied the girl,
and she raised her hand to her loosely coiled hair.
"Well, hold on to what you've got left. They may come in for
fish-hooks. Let's see your shoes."
Miss Leslie slowly thrust a slender little foot just beyond the hem of
her draggled white skirt.
"Good Lord!" groaned Blake, "slippers, and high heels at that! How
do you expect to walk in those things?"
"I can at least try," replied the girl, with spirit.
"Hobble! Pass 'em over here, Winnie, my boy."
The slippers were handed over. Blake took one after the other, and
wrenched off the heel close to its base.
"Now you've at least got a pair of slippers," he said, tossing them
back to their owner. "Tie them on tight with a couple of your ribbons,
if you don't want to lose them in the mud. Now, Winthrope, what you got
beside the knife?"
Winthrope held out a bunch of long flat keys and his cigarette case.
He opened the latter, and was about to throw away the two remaining
cigarettes when Blake grasped his wrist.
"Hold on! even they may come in for something. We'll at least keep them
until we need the case."
"And the keys!"
"Make arrow-heads, if we can get fire."
"I've heard of savages making fire by rubbing wood."
"Yes; and we're a long way from being savages,--at present. All the
show we have is to find some kind of quartz or flint, and the sooner we
start to look the better. Got your slippers tied, Miss Jenny?"
"Yes; I think they'll do."
"Think! It's knowing's the thing. Here, let me look."
The girl shrank back; but Blake stooped and examined first one slipper
and then the other. The ribbons about both were tied in dainty bows.
Blake jerked them loose and twisted them firmly over and under the
slippers and about the girl's slender ankles before knotting the ends.
"There; that's more like. You're not going to a dance," he growled.
He thrust the empty whiskey flask into his hip pocket, and went back to
pass a sling of reeds through the gills of the coryphene.
"All ready now," he called. "Let's get a move on. Keep my coat closer
about your shoulders, Miss Jenny, and keep your shade up, if you don't
want a sunstroke."
"Thank you, Blake, I'll see to that," said Winthrope. "I'm going to
help Miss Leslie along. I've fastened our two shades together, so that
they will answer for both of us."
"How about yourself, Mr. Blake?" inquired the girl. "Do you not find
the sun fearfully hot?"
"Sure; but I wet my head in the sea, and here's another souse."
As he rose with dripping head from beside the pool, he slung the
coryphene on his back, and started off without further words.
CHAPTER IV
A JOURNEY IN DESOLATION
Morning was well advanced, and the sun beat down upon the three with
almost overpowering fierceness. The heat would have rendered their thirst
unendurable had not Blake hacked off for them bit after bit of the moist
coryphene flesh.
In a temperate climate, ten miles over firm ground is a pleasant walk
for one accustomed to the exercise. Quite a different matter is ten
miles across mud-flats, covered with a tangle of reeds and rushes,
and frequently dipping into salt marsh and ooze. Before they had gone
a mile Miss Leslie would have lost her slippers had it not been for
Blake's forethought in tying them so securely. Within a little more
than three miles the girl's strength began to fail.
"Oh, Blake," called Winthrope, for the American was some yards in
the lead, "pull up a bit on that knoll. We'll have to rest a while, I
fancy. Miss Leslie is about pegged."
"What's that?" demanded Blake. "We're not half-way yet!"
Winthrope did not reply. It was all he could do to drag the girl up on
the hummock. She sank, half-fainting, upon the dry reeds, and he sat down
beside her to protect her with the shade. Blake stared at the miles of
swampy flats which yet lay between them and the out-jutting headland of
gray rock. The base of the cliff was screened by a belt of trees; but
the nearest clump of green did not look more than a mile nearer than
the headland.
"Hell!" muttered Blake, despondently. "Not even a short four miles.
Mush and sassiety girls!"
Though he spoke to himself, the others heard him. Miss Leslie flushed,
and would have risen had not Winthrope put his hand on her arm.
"Could you not go on, and bring back a flask of water for Miss Leslie?"
he asked. "By that time she will be rested."
"No; I don't fetch back any flasks of water. She's going when I go,
or you can come on to suit yourselves."
"Mr. Blake, you--you won't go, and leave me here! If you have a
sister--if your mother--"
"She died of drink, and both my sisters did worse."
"My God, man! do you mean to say you'll abandon a helpless young girl?"
"Not a bit more helpless than were my sisters when you rich folks'
guardians of law and order jugged me for the winter, 'cause I didn't
have a job, and turned both girls into the street--onto the street, if
you know what that means--one only sixteen and the other seventeen. Talk
about helpless young girls-- Damnation!"
Miss Leslie cringed back as though she had been struck. Blake, however,
seemed to have vented his anger in the curse, for when he again spoke,
there was nothing more than impatience in his tone. "Come on, now; get
aboard. Winthrope couldn't lug you a half-mile, and long's it's the
only way, don't be all day about it. Here, Winthrope, look to the fish."
"But, my dear fellow, I don't quite take your idea, nor does Miss
Leslie, I fancy," ventured Winthrope.
"Well, we've got to get to water, or die; and as the lady can't walk,
she's going on my back. It's a case of have-to."
"No! I am not--I am not! I'd sooner die!"
"I'm afraid you'll find that easy enough, later on, Miss Jenny. Stand
by, Winthrope, to help her up. Do you hear? Take the knife and fish, and
lend a hand."
There was a note in Blake's voice that neither Winthrope nor Miss
Leslie dared disregard. Though scarlet with mortification, she permitted
herself to be taken pick-a-back upon Blake's broad shoulders, and meekly
obeyed his command to clasp her hands about his throat. Yet even at
that moment, such are the inconsistencies of human nature, she could
not but admire the ease with which he rose under her weight.
Now that he no longer had the slow pace of the girl to consider, he
advanced at his natural gait, the quick, tireless stride of an American
railroad-surveyor. His feet, trained to swamp travel in Louisiana and
Panama, seemed to find the firmest ground as by instinct, and whether
on the half-dried mud of the hummocks or in the ankle-deep water of the
bogs, they felt their way without slip or stumble.
Winthrope, though burdened only with the half-eaten coryphene, toiled
along behind, greatly troubled by the mud and the tangled reeds, and now
and then flung down by some unlucky misstep. His modish suit, already
much damaged by the salt water, was soon smeared afresh with a coating
of greenish slime. His one consolation was that Blake, after jeering
at his first tumble, paid no more attention to him. On the other hand,
he was cut by the seeming indifference of Miss Leslie. Intent on his
own misery, he failed to consider that the girl might be suffering far
greater discomfort and humiliation.
More than three miles had been covered before Blake stopped on a hummock.
Releasing Miss Leslie, he stretched out on the dry crest of the knoll,
and called for a slice of the fish. At his urging, the others took a
few mouthfuls, although their throats were now so parched that even
the moist flesh afforded scant relief. Fortunately for them all, Blake
had been thoroughly trained to endure thirst. He rested less than ten
minutes; then, taking Miss Leslie up again like a rag doll, he swung away
at a good pace.
The trees were less than half a mile distant when he halted for the
second time. He would have gone to them without a pause though his
muscles were quivering with exhaustion, had not Miss Leslie chanced to
look around and discover that Winthrope was no longer following them.
For the last mile he had been lagging farther and farther behind, and
now he had suddenly disappeared. At the girl's dismayed exclamation,
Blake released his hold, and she found herself standing in a foot or
more of mud and water. The sweat was streaming down Blake's face. As he
turned around, he wiped it off with his shirtsleeves.
"Do you--can it be, Mr. Blake, that he has had a sunstroke?" asked Miss
Leslie.
"Sunstroke? No; he's just laid down, that's all. I thought he had more
sand--confound him!"
"But the sun is so dreadfully hot, and I have his shade."
"And he's been tumbling into every other pool. No; it's not the sun.
I've half a mind to let him lie--the paper-legged swell! It would no
more than square our aboard-ship accounts."
"Surely, you would not do that, Mr. Blake! It may be that he has hurt
himself in falling."
"In this mud?--bah! But I guess I'm in for the pack-mule stunt all
around. Now, now; don't yowl, Miss Jenny. I'm going. But you can't
expect me to love the snob."
As he splashed away on the return trail, Miss Leslie dabbed at her eyes
to check the starting tears.
"Oh, dear--Oh, dear!" she moaned; "what have I done, to be so treated?
Such a brute, Oh, dear!--and I am so thirsty!"
In her despair she would have sunk down where she stood had not the
sliminess of the water repelled her. She gazed longingly at the trees,
in the fore of which stood a grove of stately palms. The half-mile seemed
an insuperable distance, but the ride on Blake's back had rested her,
and thirst goaded her forward.
Stumbling and slipping, she waded on across the inundated ground, and
came out upon a half-baked mud-flat, where the walking was much easier.
But the sun was now almost directly overhead, and between her thirst and
the heat, she soon found herself faltering. She tottered on a few steps
farther, and then stopped, utterly spent As she sank upon the dried
rushes, she glanced around, and was vaguely conscious of a strange,
double-headed figure following her path across the marsh. All about
her became black.
The next she knew, Blake was splashing her head and face with brackish
water out of the whiskey flask. She raised her hand to shield her face,
and sat up, sick and dizzy.
"That's it!" said Blake. He spoke in a kindly tone, though his voice
was harsh and broken with thirst. "You're all right now. Pull yourself
together, and we'll get to the trees in a jiffy."
"Mr. Winthrope--?"
"I'm here, Miss Genevieve. It was only a wrenched ankle. If I had a
stick, Blake, I fancy I could make a go of it over this drier ground."
"And lay yourself up for a month. Come, Miss Jenny, brace up for
another try. It's only a quarter-mile, and I've got to pack him."
The girl was gasping with thirst; yet she made an effort, and assisted
by Blake managed to gain her feet. She was still dizzy; but as Blake
swung Winthrope upon his back, he told her to take hold of his arm.
Winthrope held the shade over her head. Thus assisted, and sheltered from
the direct beat of the sun-rays, she tottered along beside Blake, half
unconscious.
Fortunately the remaining distance lay across a stretch of bare dry
ground, for even Blake had all but reached the limit of endurance. Step
by step he labored on, staggering under the weight of the Englishman,
and gasping with a thirst which his exertions rendered even greater
than that of his companions. But through the trees and brush which
stretched away inland in a wall of verdure he had caught glimpses of a
broad stream, and the hope of fresh water called out every ounce of his
reserve strength.
At last the nearest palm was only a few paces distant. Blake clutched
Miss Leslie's arm, and dragged her forward with a rush, in a final
outburst of energy. A moment later all three lay gasping in the shade.
But the river was yet another hundred yards distant. Blake waited only
to regain his breath; then he staggered up and went on. The others,
unable to rise, gazed after him in silent misery.
Soon Blake found himself rushing through the jungle along a broad trail
pitted with enormous footprints; but he was so near mad with thirst
that he paid no heed to the spoor other than to curse the holes for
the trouble they gave him. Suddenly the trail turned to the left and
sloped down a low bank into the river. Blind to all else, Blake ran
down the slope, and dropping upon his knees, plunged his head into the
water.
At first his throat was so dry that he could no more than rinse his
mouth. With the first swallow, his swollen tongue mocked him with
the salt, bitter taste of sea-water. The tide was flowing! He rose,
sputtering and choking and gasping. He stared around. There was no
question that he was on the bank of a river and would be certain of
fresh water with the ebb tide. But could he endure the agony of his
thirst all those hours?
He thought of his companions.
"Good God!" he groaned, "they're goners anyway!"
He stared dully up the river at the thousands of waterfowl which lined
its banks. Within close view were herons and black ibises, geese,
pelicans, flamingoes, and a dozen other species of birds of which he
did not know the names. But he sat as though in a stupor, and did not
move even when one of the driftwood logs on a mud-shoal a few yards
up-stream opened an enormous mouth and displayed two rows of hooked
fangs. It was otherwise when the noontime stillness was broken by a
violent splashing and loud snortings down-stream. He glanced about,
and saw six or eight monstrous heads drifting towards him with the tide.
"What in-- Whee! a whole herd of hippos!" he muttered. "That's what
the holes mean."
The foremost hippopotamus was headed directly for him. He glared at the
huge head with sullen resentment. For all his stupor, he perceived at
once that the beast intended to land; and he sat in the middle of its
accustomed path. His first impulse was to spring up and yell at the
creature. Then he remembered hearing that a white hunter had recently
been killed by these beasts on one of the South African lakes. Instead
of leaping up, he sank down almost flat, and crawled back around the
turn in the path. Once certain that he was hidden from the beasts, he
rose to his feet and hastened back through the jungle.
He was almost in view of the spot where he had left Winthrope and Miss
Leslie, when he stopped and stood hesitating.
"I can't do it," he muttered; "I can't tell her,--poor girl!"
He turned and pushed into the thicket. Forcing a way through the tangle
of thorny shrubs and creepers, until several yards from the path, he
began to edge towards the face of the jungle, that he might peer out at
his companions, unseen by them.
There was more of the thicket before him than he had thought, and he was
still fighting his way through it, when he was brought to a stand by a
peculiar cry that might have been the bleat of a young lamb: "Ba--ba!"
"What's that!" he croaked.
He stood listening, and in a moment he again heard the cry, this time
more distinctly: "Blak!--Blak!"
There could be no mistake. It was Winthrope calling for him, and calling
with a clearness of voice that would have been physically impossible half
an hour since. Blake's sunken eyes lighted with hope. He burst through
the last screen of jungle, and stared towards the palm under which he
had left his companions. They were not there.
Another call from Winthrope directed his gaze more seaward. The two were
seated beside a fallen palm, and Miss Leslie had a large round object
raised to her lips. Winthrope was waving to him.
"Cocoanuts!" he yelled. "Come on!"
Three of the palms had been overthrown by the hurricane, and when Blake
came up, he found the ground strewn with nuts. He seized the first he
came to; but Winthrope held out one already opened. He snatched it
from him, and placed the hole to his swollen lips. Never had champagne
tasted half so delicious as that cocoanut milk. Before he could drain
the last of it through the little opening, Winthrope had the husks torn
from the ends of two other nuts, and the convenient germinal spots
gouged open with his penknife.
Blake emptied the third before he spoke. Even then his voice was hoarse
and strained. "How'd you strike 'em?"
"I couldn't help it," explained Winthrope. "Hardly had you
disappeared when I noticed the tops of the fallen palms, and thought of
the nuts. There was one in the grass not twenty feet from where we lay."
"Lucky for you--and for me, too, I guess," said Blake. "We were all
three down for the count. But this settles the first round in our favor.
How do you like the picnic, Miss Jenny?"
"Miss Leslie, if you please," replied the girl, with hauteur.
"Oh, say, Miss Jenny!" protested Blake, genially. "We live in the same
boarding-house now. Why not be folksy? You're free to call me Tom. Pass
me another nut, Winthrope. Thanks! By the way, what's your front name?
Saw it aboard ship--Cyril--"
"Cecil," corrected Winthrope, in a low tone.
"Cecil--Lord Cecil, eh?--or is it only The Honorable Cecil?"
"My dear sir, I have intimated before that, for reasons of--er--State--"
"Oh, yes; you're travelling incog., in the secret service. Sort of
detective--"
"Detective!" echoed Winthrope, in a peculiar tone.
Blake grinned. "Well, it is rawther a nawsty business for your honorable
ludship. But there's nothing like calling things by their right names."
"Right names--er--I don't quite take you. I have told you distinctly,
my name is Cecil Winthrope!"
"O-h-h! how lovely!--See-sill! See-seal!--Bet they called you Sissy
at school. English, chum of mine told me your schools are corkers for
nicknames. What'll we make it--Sis or Sissy?"
"I prefer my patronymic, Mr. Blake," replied Winthrope.
"All right, then; we'll make it Pat, if that's your choice. I say,
Pat, this juice is the stuff for wetness, but it makes a fellow remember
his grub. Where'd you leave that fish?"
"Really, I can't just say, but it must have been where I wrenched my
ankle."
"You cawn't just say! And what are we going to eat?"
"Here are the cocoanuts."
"Bright boy! go to the head of the class! Just take some more husk off
those empty ones."
Winthrope caught up one of the nuts, and with the aid of his knife,
stripped it of its husk. At a gesture from Blake, he laid it on the
bare ground, and the American burst it open with a blow of his heel.
It was an immature nut, and the meat proved to be little thicker than
clotted cream. Blake divided it into three parts, handing Miss Leslie
the cleanest.
Though his companions began with more restraint, they finished their
shares with equal gusto. Winthrope needed no further orders to return to
his husking. One after another, the nuts were cracked and divided among
the three, until even Blake could not swallow another mouthful of the
luscious cream.
Toward the end Miss Leslie had become drowsy. At Winthrope's urging,
she now lay down for a nap, Blake's coat serving as a pillow. She fell
asleep while Winthrope was yet arranging it for her. Blake had turned
his back on her, and was staring moodily at the hippopotamus trail, when
Winthrope hobbled around and sat down on the palm trunk beside him.
"I say, Blake," he suggested, "I feel deuced fagged myself. Why not
all take a nap?"
"'And when they awoke, they were all dead men,'" remarked Blake.
"By Jove, that sounds like a joke," protested the Englishman. "Don't
rag me now."
"Joke!" repeated Blake. "Why, that's Scripture, Pat, Scripture!
Anyway, you'd think it no joke to wake up and find yourself going down
the throat of a hippo."
"Hippo?"
"Dozens of them over in the river. Shouldn't wonder if they've all
landed, and 're tracking me down by this time."
"But hippopotami are not carnivorous--they're not at all dangerous,
unless one wounds them, out in the water."
"That may be; but I'm not taking chances. They've got mouths like
sperm whales--I saw one take a yawn. Another thing, that bayou is chuck
full of alligators, and a fellow down on the Rand told me they're like
the Central American gavials for keenness to nip a swimmer."
"They will not come out on this dry land."
"Suppose they won't--there're no other animals in Africa but sheep,
eh?"
"What can we do? The captain told me that there are both lions and
leopards on this coast."
"Nice place for them, too, around these trees," added Blake. "Lucky
for us, they're night-birds mostly,--if that Rand fellow didn't lie.
He was a Boer, so I guess he ought to know."
"To be sure. It's a nasty fix we're in for to-night. Could we not
build some kind of a barricade?"
"With a penknife! Guess we'll roost in a tree."
"But cannot leopards climb? It seems to me that I have heard--"
"How about lions?"
"They cannot; I'm sure of that."
"Then we'll chance the leopards. Just stretch out here, and nurse that
ankle of yours. I don't want to be lugging you all year. I'm going to
hunt a likely tree."
CHAPTER V
THE RE-ASCENT OF MAN
Afternoon was far advanced, and Winthrope was beginning to feel anxious,
when at last Blake pushed out from among the close thickets. As he
approached, he swung an unshapely club of green wood, pausing every few
paces to test its weight and balance on a bush or knob of dirt.
"By Jove!" called Winthrope; "that's not half bad! You look as if
you could bowl over an ox."
Blake showed that he was flattered.
"Oh, I don't know," he responded; "the thing's blamed unhandy. Just
the same, I guess we'll be ready for callers to-night."
"How's that?"
"Show you later, Pat, me b'y. Now trot out some nuts. We'll feed
before we move camp."
"Miss Leslie is still sleeping."
"Time, then, to roust her out. Hey, Miss Jenny, turn out! Time to chew."
Miss Leslie sat up and gazed around in bewilderment.
"It's all right, Miss Genevieve," reassured Winthrope. "Blake has
found a safe place for the night, and he wishes us to eat before we leave
here."
"Save lugging the grub," added Blake. "Get busy, Pat."
As Winthrope caught up a nut, the girl began to arrange her disordered
hair and dress with the deft and graceful movements of a woman thoroughly
trained in the art of self-adornment. There was admiration in Blake's
deep eyes as he watched her dainty preening. She was not a beautiful
girl--at present she could hardly be termed pretty; yet even in her
draggled, muddy dress she retained all the subtle charms of culture
which appeal so strongly to a man. Blake was subdued. His feelings even
carried him so far as an attempt at formal politeness, when they had
finished their meal.
"Now, Miss Leslie," he began, "it's little more than half an hour
to sundown; so, if you please, if you're quite ready, we'd best be
starting."
"Is it far?"
"Not so very. But we've got to chase through the jungle. Are you sure
you're quite ready?"
"Quite, thank you. But how about Mr. Winthrope's ankle?"
"He'll ride as far as the trees. I can't squeeze through with him,
though."
"I shall walk all the way," put in Winthrope.
"No, you won't. Climb aboard," replied Blake, and catching up his
club, he stooped for Winthrope to mount his back. As he rose with his
burden, Miss Leslie caught sight of his coat, which still lay in a roll
beside the palm trunk.
"How about your coat, Mr. Blake?" she asked. "Should you not put it
on?"
"No; I'm loaded now. Have to ask you to look after it. You may need
it before morning, anyway. If the dews here are like those in Central
America, they are d-darned liable to bring on malarial fever."
Nothing more was said until they had crossed the open space between the
palms and the belt of jungle along the river. At other times Winthrope
and Miss Leslie might have been interested in the towering screw-palms,
festooned to the top with climbers, and in the huge ferns which they
could see beneath the mangroves, in the swampy ground on their left.
Now, however, they were far too concerned with the question of how
they should penetrate the dense tangle of thorny brush and creepers
which rose before them like a green wall. Even Blake hesitated as he
released Winthrope, and looked at Miss Leslie's costume. Her white
skirt was of stout duck; but the flimsy material of her waist was
ill-suited for rough usage.
"Better put the coat on, unless you want to come out on the other side
in full evening dress," he said. "There's no use kicking; but I wish
you'd happened to have on some sort of a jacket when we got spilled."
"Is there no path through the thicket?" inquired Winthrope.
"Only the hippo trail, and it don't go our way. We've got to run our
own line. Here's a stick for your game ankle."
Winthrope took the half-green branch which Blake broke from the nearest
tree, and turned to assist Miss Leslie with the coat. The garment was
of such coarse cloth that as Winthrope drew the collar close about her
throat Miss Leslie could not forego a little grimace of repugnance. The
crease between Blake's eyes deepened, and the girl hastened to utter
an explanatory exclamation: "Not so tight, Mr. Winthrope, please! It
scratches my neck."
"You'd find those thorns a whole lot worse," muttered Blake.
"To be sure; and Miss Leslie fully appreciates your kindness,"
interposed Winthrope.
"I do indeed, Mr. Blake! I'm sure I never could go through here without
your coat."
"That's all right. Got the handkerchief?"
"I put it in one of the pockets."
"It'll do to tie up your hair."
Miss Leslie took the suggestion, knotting the big square of linen over
her fluffy brown hair.
Blake waited only for her to draw out the kerchief, before he began to
force a way through the jungle. Now and then he beat at the tangled
vegetation with his club. Though he held to the line by which he had
left the thicket, yet all his efforts failed to open an easy passage
for the others. Many of the thorny branches sprang back into place behind
him, and as Miss Leslie, who was the first to follow, sought to thrust
them aside, the thorns pierced her delicate skin, until her hands were
covered with blood. Nor did Winthrope, stumbling and hobbling behind her,
fare any better. Twice he tripped headlong into the brush, scratching
his arms and face.
Blake took his own punishment as a matter of course, though his tougher
and thicker skin made his injuries less painful. He advanced steadily
along the line of bent and broken twigs that marked his outward passage,
until the thicket opened on a strip of grassy ground beneath a wild
fig-tree.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Winthrope, "a banyan!"
"Banyan? Well, if that's British for a daisy, you've hit it,"
responded Blake. "Just take a squint up here. How's that for a roost?"
Winthrope and Miss Leslie stared up dubiously at the edge of a bed of
reeds gathered in the hollow of one of the huge flattened branches at its
junction with the main trunk of the banyan, twenty feet above them.
"Will not the mosquitoes pester us, here among the trees?" objected
Winthrope.
"Storm must have blown 'em away. I haven't seen any yet."
"There will be millions after sunset."
"Maybe; but I bet they keep below our roost"
"But how are we to get up so high?" inquired Miss Leslie.
"I can swarm this drop root, and I've a creeper ready for you two,"
explained Blake.
Suiting action to words, he climbed up the small trunk of the air root,
and swung over into the hollow where he had piled the reeds. Across the
broad limb dangled a rope-like creeper, one end of which he had fastened
to a branch higher up. He flung down the free end to Winthrope.
"Look lively, Pat," he called. "The sun's most gone, and the twilight
don't last all night in these parts. Get the line around Miss Leslie,
and do what you can on a boost."
"I see; but, you know, the vine is too stiff to tie."
Blake stifled an oath, and jerked the end of the creeper up into his
hand. When he threw it down again, it was looped around and fastened in
a bowline knot.
"Now, Miss Leslie, get aboard, and we'll have you up in a jiffy," he
said.
"Are you sure you can lift me?" asked the girl, as Winthrope slipped
the loop over her shoulders.
Blake laughed down at them. "Well, I guess yes! Once hoisted a fellow
out of a fifty-foot prospect hole--big fat Dutchman at that. You don't
weigh over a hundred and twenty."
He had stretched out across the broadest part of the branch. As Miss
Leslie seated herself in the loop, he reached down and began to haul up
on the creeper, hand over hand. Though frightened by the novel manner
of ascent, the girl clung tightly to the line above her head, and Blake
had no difficulty in raising her until she swung directly beneath him.
Here, however, he found himself in a quandary. The girl seemed as
helpless as a child, and he was lying flat. How could he lift her above
the level of the branch?
"Take hold the other line," he said. The girl hesitated. "Do you hear?
Grab it quick, and pull up hard, if you don't want a tumble!"
The girl seized the part of the creeper which was fastened above, and
drew herself up with convulsive energy. Instantly Blake rose to his
knees, and grasping the taut creeper with one hand, reached down with
the other, to swing the girl up beside him on the branch.
"All right, Miss Jenny," he reassured her as he felt her tremble.
"Sorry to scare you, but I couldn't have made it without. Now, if
you'll just hold down my legs, we'll soon hoist his ludship."
He had seated her in the broadest part of the shallow hollow, where the
branch joined the main trunk of the fig. Heaped with the reeds which
he had gathered during the afternoon, it made such a cozy shelter that
she at once forgot her dizziness and fright. Nestling among the reeds,
she leaned over and pressed down on his ankles with all her strength.
The loose end of the creeper had fallen to the ground when Blake lifted
her upon the branch, and Winthrope was already slipping into the loop.
Blake ordered him to take it off, and send up the club. As the creeper
was again flung down, a black shadow swept over the jungle.
"Hello! Sunset!" called Blake. "Look sharp, there!"
"All ready," responded Winthrope.
Blake drew in a full breath, and began to hoist. The position was an
awkward one, and Winthrope weighed thirty or forty pounds more than Miss
Leslie. But as the Englishman came within reach of the descending loop,
he grasped it and did what he could to ease Blake's efforts. A few
moments found him as high above the ground as Blake could raise him.
Without waiting for orders, he swung himself upon the upper part of
the creeper, and climbed the last few feet unaided. Blake grunted with
satisfaction as he pulled him in upon the branch.
"You may do, after all," he said. "At any rate, we're all aboard for
the night; and none too soon. Hear that!"
"What?"
"Lion, I guess--Not that yelping. Listen!"
The brief twilight was already fading into the darkness of a moonless
night, and as the three crouched together in their shallow nest, they
were soon made audibly aware of the savage nature of their surroundings.
With the gathering night the jungle wakened into full life. From all
sides came the harsh squawking of birds, the weird cries of monkeys and
other small creatures, the crash of heavy animals moving through the
jungle, and above all the yelp and howl and roar of beasts of prey.
After some contention with Winthrope, Blake conceded that the roars
of his lion might be nothing worse than the snorting of the hippopotami
as they came out to browse for the night. In this, however, there was
small comfort, since Winthrope presently reasserted his belief in the
climbing ability of leopards, and expressed his opinion that, whether
or not there were lions in the neighborhood, certain of the barking
roars they could hear came from the throats of the spotted climbers. Even
Blake's hair bristled as his imagination pictured one of the great
cats creeping upon them in the darkness from the far end of their nest
limb, or leaping down out of the upper branches.
The nerves of all three were at their highest tension when a dark form
swept past through the air within a yard of their faces. Miss Leslie
uttered a stifled scream, and Blake brandished his club. But Winthrope,
who had caught a glimpse of the creature's shape, broke into a nervous
laugh.
"It's only a fruit bat," he explained. "They feed on the banyan figs,
you know."
In the reaction from this false alarm, both men relaxed, and began
to yield to the effects of the tramp across the mud-flats. Arranging
the reeds as best they could, they stretched out on either side of
Miss Leslie, and fell asleep in the middle of an argument on how the
prospective leopard was most likely to attack.
Miss Leslie remained awake for two or three hours longer. Naturally
she was more nervous than her companions, and she had been refreshed by
her afternoon's nap. Her nervousness was not entirely due to the wild
beasts. Though Blake had taken pains to secure himself and his companions
in loops of the creeper, fastened to the branch above, Winthrope moved
about so restlessly in his sleep that the girl feared he would roll from
the hollow.
At last her limbs became so cramped that she was compelled to change
her position. She leaned back upon her elbow, determined to rise again
and maintain her watch the moment she was rested. But sleep was close
upon her. There was a lull in the louder noises of the jungle. Her eyes
closed, and her head sank lower. In a little time it was lying upon
Winthrope's shoulder, and she was fast asleep.
As Blake had asserted, the mosquitoes had either been blown away by
the cyclone, or did not fly to such a height. None came to trouble the
exhausted sleepers.
CHAPTER VI
MAN AND GENTLEMAN
Night had almost passed, and all three, soothed by the refreshing
coolness which preceded the dawn, were sleeping their soundest, when
a sudden fierce roar followed instantly by a piercing squeal caused
even Blake to start up in panic. Miss Leslie, too terrified to scream,
clung to Winthrope, who crouched on his haunches, little less overcome.
Blake was the first to recover and puzzle out the meaning of the crashing
in the jungle and the ferocious growls directly beneath them.
"Lie still," he whispered. "We're all right. It's only a beast
that's killed something down below us."
All sat listening, and as the noise of the animals in the thicket died
away, they could hear the beast beneath them tear at the body of its
victim.
"The air feels like dawn," whispered Winthrope. "We'll soon be able
to see the brute."
"And he us," rejoined Blake.
In this both were mistaken. During the brief false dawn they were puzzled
by the odd appearance of the ground. The sudden flood of full daylight
found them staring down into a dense white fog.
"So they have that here!" muttered Blake--"fever-fog!"
"Beastly shame!" echoed Winthrope. "I'm sure the creature has gone
off."
This assertion was met by an outburst of snarls and yells that made all
start back and crouch down again in their sheltering hollow. As before,
Blake was the first to recover.
"Bet you're right," he said. "The big one has gone off, and a pack
of these African coyotes are having a scrap over the bones."
"You mean jackals. It sounds like the nasty beasts."
"If it wasn't for that fog, I'd go down and get our share of the
game."
"Would it not be very dangerous, Mr. Blake?" asked Miss Leslie. "What
a fearful noise!"
"I've chased coyotes off a calf with a rope; but that's not the
proposition. You don't find me fooling around in that sewer gas of a
fog. We'll roost right where we are till the sun does for it. We've
got enough malaria in us already."
"Will it be long, Blake?" asked Winthrope.
"Huh? Getting hungry this quick? Wait till you've tramped around a
week, with nothing to eat but your shoes."
"Surely, Mr. Blake, it will not be so bad!" protested Miss Leslie.
"Sorry, Miss Jenny; but cocoanut palms don't blow over every day, and
when those nuts are gone, what are we going to do for the next meal?"
"Could we not make bows?" suggested Winthrope. "There seems to be no
end of game about."
"Bows--and arrows without points! Neither of us could hit a barn door,
anyway."
"We could practise."
"Sure--six weeks' training on air pudding. I can do better with a
handful of stones."
"Then we should go at once to the cliffs," said Miss Leslie.
"Now you're talking--and it's Pike Peak or bust, for ours. Here's
one night to the good; but we won't last many more if we don't get
fire. It's flints we're after now."
"Could we not make fire by rubbing sticks?" said Winthrope, recalling
his suggestion of the previous morning. "I've heard that natives have
no trouble--"
"So've I, and what's more, I've seen 'em do it. Never could make
a go of it myself, though."
"But if you remember how it is done, we have at least some chance--"
"Give you ten to one odds! No; we'll scratch around for a flint good
and plenty before we waste time that way."
"The mist is going," observed Miss Leslie.
"That's no lie. Now for our coyotes. Where's my club?"
"They've all left," said Winthrope, peering down. "I can see the
ground clearly, and there is not a sign of the beasts."
"There are the bones--what's left of them," added Blake. "It's a
small deer, I suppose. Well, here goes."
He threw down his club, and dropped the loose end of the creeper after
it. As the line straightened, he twisted the upper part around his leg,
and was about to slide to the ground, when he remembered Miss Leslie.
"Think you can make it alone?" he asked.
The girl held up her hands, sore and swollen from the lacerations of the
thorns. Blake looked at them, frowned, and turned to Winthrope.
"Um! you got it, too, and in the face," he grunted. "How's your
ankle?"
Winthrope wriggled his foot about, and felt the injured ankle.
"I fancy it is much better," he answered. "There seems to be no
swelling, and there is no pain now."
"That's lucky; though it will tune up later. Take a slide, now. We've
got to hustle our breakfast, and find a way to get over the river."
"How wide is it?" inquired Winthrope, gazing at his swollen hands.
"About three hundred yards at high tide. May be narrower at ebb."
"Could you not build a raft?" suggested Miss Leslie.
Blake smiled at her simplicity. "Why not a boat? We've got a penknife."
"Well, then, I can swim."
"Bully for you! Guess, though, we'll try something else. The river is
chuck full of alligators. What you waiting for, Pat? We haven't got all
day to fool around here."
Winthrope twisted the creeper about his leg and slid to the ground, doing
all he could to favor his hands. He found that he could walk without
pain, and at once stepped over beside Blake's club, glancing nervously
around at the jungle.
Blake jerked up the end of the creeper, and passed the loop about Miss
Leslie. Before she had time to become frightened, he swung her over and
lowered her to the ground lightly as a feather. He followed, hand under
hand, and stood for a moment beside her, staring at the dew-dripping
foliage of the jungle. Then the remains of the night's quarry caught
his eye, and he walked over to examine them.
"Say, Pat," he called, "these don't look like deer bones. I'd
say--yes; there's the feet--it's a pig."
"Any tusks?" demanded Winthrope.
Miss Leslie looked away. A heap of bones, however cleanly gnawed, is
not a pleasant sight. The skull of the animal seemed to be missing; but
Blake stumbled upon it in a tuft of grass, and kicked it out upon the
open ground. Every shred of hide and gristle had been gnawed from it
by the jackals; yet if there had been any doubt as to the creature's
identity, there was evidence to spare in the savage tusks which projected
from the jaws.
"Je-rusalem!" observed Blake; "this old boar must have been something
of a scrapper his own self."
"In India they have been known to kill a tiger. Can you knock out the
tusks?"
"What for?"
"Well, you said we had nothing for arrow points--"
"Good boy! We'll cinch them, and ask questions later."
A few blows with the club loosened the tusks. Blake handed them over to
Winthrope, together with the whiskey flask, and led the way to the
half-broken path through the thicket. A free use of his club made the
path a little more worthy of the name, and as there was less need of
haste than on the previous evening, Winthrope and Miss Leslie came
through with only a few fresh scratches. Once on open ground again,
they soon gained the fallen palms.
At a word from Blake, Miss Leslie hastened to fetch nuts for Winthrope
to husk and open. Blake, who had plucked three leaves from a fan palm
near the edge of the jungle, began to split long shreds from one of the
huge leaves of a cocoanut palm. This gave him a quantity of coarse, stiff
fibre, part of which he twisted in a cord and used to tie one of the
leaves of the fan palm over his head.
"How's that for a bonnet?" he demanded.
The improvised head-gear bore so grotesque a resemblance to a recent type
of picture hat that Winthrope could not repress a derisive laugh. Miss
Leslie, however, examined the hat and gave her opinion without a sign
of amusement. "I think it is splendid, Mr. Blake. If we must go out in
the sun again, it is just the thing to protect one."
"Yes. Here's two more I've fixed for you. Ready yet, Winthrope?"
The Englishman nodded, and the three sat down to their third feast of
cocoanuts. They were hungry enough at the start, and Blake added no
little keenness even to his own appetite by a grim joke on the slender
prospects of the next meal, to the effect that, if in the meantime not
eaten themselves, they might possibly find their next meal within a week.
"But if we must move, could we not take some of the nuts with us?"
suggested Winthrope.
Blake pondered over this as he ate, and when, fully satisfied, he helped
himself up with his club, he motioned the others to remain seated.
"There are your hats and the strings," he said, "but you won't need
them now. I'm going to take a prospect along the river; and while I'm
gone, you can make a try at stringing nuts on some of this leaf fibre."
"But, Mr. Blake, do you think it's quite safe?" asked Miss Leslie,
and she glanced from him to the jungle.
"Safe?" he repeated. "Well, nothing ate you yesterday, if that's
anything to go by. It's all I know about it."
He did not wait for further protests. Swinging his club on his shoulder,
he started for the break in the jungle which marked the hippopotamus
path. The others looked at each other, and Miss Leslie sighed.
"If only he were a gentleman!" she complained.
Winthrope turned abruptly to the cocoanuts.
CHAPTER VII
AROUND THE HEADLAND
It was mid morning before Blake reappeared. He came from the mangrove
swamp where it ran down into the sea. His trousers were smeared to the
thigh with slimy mud; but as he approached, the drooping brim of his
palm-leaf hat failed to hide his exultant expression.
"Come on!" he called. "I've struck it. We'll be over in half an
hour."
"How's that?" asked Winthrope.
"Bar," answered Blake, hurrying forward. "Sling on your hats, and get
into my coat again, Miss Jenny. The sun's hot as yesterday. How about
the nuts?"
"Here they are. Three strings; all that I fancied we could carry,"
explained Winthrope.
"All right. The big one is mine, I suppose. I'll take two. We'll leave
the other. Lean on me, if your ankle is still weak."
"Thanks; I can make it alone. But must we go through mud like that?"
"Not on this side, at least. Come on! We don't want to miss the ebb."
Blake's impatience discouraged further inquiries. He had turned as he
spoke, and the others followed him, walking close together. The pace
was sharp for Winthrope, and his ankle soon began to twinge. He was
compelled to accept Miss Leslie's invitation to take her arm. With her
help, he managed to keep within a few yards of Blake.
Instead of plunging into the mangrove wood, which here was undergrown
with a thicket of giant ferns, Blake skirted around in the open until
they came to the seashore. The tide was at its lowest, and he waved his
club towards a long sand spit which curved out around the seaward edge
of the mangroves. Whether this was part of the river's bar, or had been
heaped up by the cyclone would have been beyond Winthrope's knowledge,
had the question occurred to him. It was enough for him that the sand was
smooth and hard as a race track.
Presently the party came to the end of the spit, where the river water
rippled over the sand with the last feeble out-suck of the ebb. On their
right they had a sweeping view of the river, around the flank of the
mangrove screen. Blake halted at the edge of the water, and half turned.
"Close up," he said. "It's shallow enough; but do you see those logs
over on the mud-bank? Those are alligators."
"Mercy!--and you expect me to wade among such creatures?" cried Miss
Leslie.
"I went almost across an hour ago, and they didn't bother me any. Come
on! There's wind in that cloud out seaward. Inside half an hour the
surf'll be rolling up on this bar like all Niagara."
"If we must, we must, Miss Genevieve," urged Winthrope. "Step behind
me, and gather up your skirts. It's best to keep one's clothes dry in
the tropics."
The girl blushed, and retained his arm.
"I prefer to help you," she replied.
"Come on!" called Blake, and he splashed out into the water.
The others followed within arm's-length, nervously conscious of the rows
of motionless reptiles on the mud-flat, not a hundred yards distant.
In the centre of the bar, where the water was a trifle over knee-deep,
some large creature came darting down-stream beneath the surface, and
passed with a violent swirl between Blake and his companions. At Miss
Leslie's scream, Blake whirled about and jabbed with his club at the
supposed alligator.
"Where's the brute? Has he got you?" he shouted.
"No, no; he went by!" gasped Winthrope. "There he is!"
A long bony snout, fringed on either side by a row of lateral teeth, was
flung up into view.
"Sawfish!" said Blake, and he waded on across the bar, without further
comment.
Miss Leslie had been on the point of fainting. The tone of Blake's voice
revived her instantly.
There were no more scares. A few minutes later they waded out upon a
stretch of clean sand on the south side of the river. Before them the
beach lay in a flattened curve, which at the far end hooked sharply
to the left, and appeared to terminate at the foot of the towering
limestone cliffs of the headland. A mile or more inland the river jungle
edged in close to the cliffs; but from there to the beach the forest
was separated from the wall of rock by a little sandy plain, covered
with creeping plants and small palms. The greatest width of the open
space was hardly more than a quarter of a mile.
Blake paused for a moment at high-tide mark, and Winthrope instantly
squatted down to nurse his ankle.
"I say, Blake," he said, "can't you find me some kind of a crutch?
It is only a few yards around to those trees."
"Good Lord! you haven't been fool enough to overstrain that ankle--
Yes, you have. Dammit! why couldn't you tell me before?"
"It did not feel so painful in the water."
"I helped the best I could," interposed Miss Leslie. "I think if you
could get Mr. Winthrope a crutch--"
"Crutch!" growled Blake. "How long do you think it would take me to
wade through the mud? And look at that cloud! We're in for a squall.
Here!"
He handed the girl the smaller string of cocoanuts, flung the other up
the beach, and stooped for Winthrope to mount his back. He then started
off along the beach at a sharp trot. Miss Leslie followed as best she
could, the heavy cocoanuts swinging about with every step and bruising
her tender body.
The wind was coming faster than Blake had calculated. Before they had
run two hundred paces, they heard the roar of rain-lashed water, and the
squall struck them with a force that almost overthrew the girl. With the
wind came torrents of rain that drove through their thickest garments
and drenched them to the skin within the first half-minute.
Blake slackened his pace to a walk, and plodded sullenly along beneath
the driving down-pour. He kept to the lower edge of the beach, where the
sand was firmest, for the force of the falling deluge beat down the waves
and held in check the breakers which the wind sought to roll up the beach.
The rain storm was at its height when they reached the foot of the
cliffs. The gray rock towered above them, thirty or forty feet high.
Blake deposited Winthrope upon a wet ledge, and straightened up to scan
the headland. Here and there ledges ran more than half-way up the rocky
wall; in other places the crest was notched by deep clefts; but nowhere
within sight did either offer a continuous path to the summit. Blake
grunted with disgust.
"It'd take a fire ladder to get up this side," he said. "We'll
have to try the other, if we can get around the point. I'm going on
ahead. You can follow, after Pat has rested his ankle. Keep a sharp
eye out for anything in the flint line--quartz or agate. That means
fire. Another thing, when this rain blows over, don't let your clothes
dry on you. I've got my hands full enough, without having to nurse you
through malarial fever. Don't forget the cocoanuts, and if I don't
show up by noon, save me some."
He stooped to drink from a pool in the rock which was overflowing with
the cool, pure rainwater, and started off at his sharpest pace. Winthrope
and Miss Leslie, seated side by side in dripping misery, watched him
swing away through the rain, without energy enough to call out a parting
word.
Beneath the cliff the sand beach was succeeded by a talus of rocky debris
which in places sloped up from the water ten or fifteen feet. The lower
part of the slope consisted of boulders and water-worn stones, over which
the surf, reinforced by the rising tide, was beginning to break with
an angry roar.
Blake picked his way quickly over the smaller stones near the top of
the slope, now and then bending to snatch up a fragment that seemed to
differ from the others. Finding nothing but limestone, he soon turned
his attention solely to the passage around the headland. Here he had
expected to find the surf much heavier. But the shore was protected by
a double line of reefs, so close in that the channel between did not
show a whitecap. This was fortunate, since in places the talus here sank
down almost to the level of low tide. Even a moderate surf would have
rendered farther progress impracticable.
Another hundred paces brought Blake to the second corner of the cliff,
which jutted out in a little point. He clambered around it, and stopped
to survey the coast beyond. Within the last few minutes the squall had
blown over, and the rain began to moderate its down-pour. The sun,
bursting through the clouds, told that the storm was almost past, and
its flood of direct light cleared the view.
Along the south side of the cliff the sea extended in twice as far as
on the north. From the end of the talus the coast trended off four or
five miles to the south-southwest in a shallow bight, whose southern
extremity was bounded by a second limestone headland. This ridge ran
inland parallel to the first, and from a point some little distance back
from the shore was covered with a growth of leafless trees.
Between the two ridges lay a plain, open along the shore, but a short
distance inland covered with a jungle of tall yellow grass, above
which, here and there, rose the tops of scrubby, leafless trees and the
graceful crests of slender-shafted palms. Blake's attention was drawn
to the latter by that feeling of artificiality which their exotic
appearance so often wakens in the mind of the Northern-bred man even
after long residence in the tropics. But in a moment he turned away,
with a growl. "More of those darned feather-dusters!" He was not
looking for palms.
The last ragged bit of cloud, with its showery accompaniment, drifted
past before the breeze which followed the squall, and the end of the
storm was proclaimed by a deafening chorus of squawks and screams along
the higher ledges of the cliff. Staring upward, Blake for the first time
observed that the face of the cliff swarmed with seafowl.
"That's luck!" he muttered. "Guess I haven't forgot how to rob
nests. Bet our fine lady'll shy at sucking them raw! All the same,
she'll have to, if I don't run across other rock than this, poor girl!"
He advanced again along the talus, and did not stop until he reached
the sand beach. There he halted to make a careful examination, not
only of the loose debris, but of the solid rock above. Finding no sign
of flint or quartz, he growled out a curse, and backed off along the
beach, to get a view of the cliff top. From a point a little beyond him,
outward to the extremity of the headland, he could see that the upper
ledges and the crest of the cliff, as well, were fairly crowded with
seafowl and their nests. His smile of satisfaction broadened when he
glanced inland and saw, less than half a mile distant, a wooded cleft
which apparently ran up to the summit of the ridge. From a point near
the top a gigantic baobab tree towered up against the skyline like a
Brobdingnagian cabbage.
"Say, we may have a run for our money, after all," he murmured.
"Shade, and no end of grub, and, by the green of those trees, a
spring--limestone water at that. Next thing, I'll find a flint!"
He slapped his leg, and both sound and feeling reminded him that his
clothes were drenched.
"Guess we'll wait about that flint," he said, and he made for a clump
of thorn scrub a little way inland.
As the tall grass did not grow here within a mile of the shore, there
was nothing to obstruct him. The creeping plants which during the rainy
season had matted over the sandy soil were now leafless and withered by
the heat of the dry season. Even the thorn scrub was half bare of leaves.
Blake walked around the clump to the shadiest side, and began to strip.
In quick succession, one garment after another was flung across a branch
where the sun would strike it. Last of all, the shoes were emptied of
rainwater and set out to dry. Without a pause, he then gave himself a
quick, light rub-down, just sufficient to invigorate the skin without
starting the perspiration.
Physically the man was magnificent. His muscles were wiry and compact,
rather than bulky, and as he moved, they played beneath his white skin
with the smoothness and ease of a tiger's.
After the rub-down, he squatted on his heels, and spent some time trying
to bend his palm-leaf hat back into shape. When he had placed this also
out in the sun, he found himself beginning to yawn. The dry, sultry
air had made him drowsy. A touch with his bare foot showed him that the
sand beneath the thorn bush had already absorbed the rain and offered
a dry surface. He glanced around, drew his club nearer, and stretched
himself out for a nap.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CLUB AGE
It was past two o'clock when the sun, striking in where Blake lay
outstretched, began to scorch one of his legs. He stirred uneasily, and
sat upright. Like a sailor, he was wide awake the moment he opened his
eyes. He stood up, and peered around through the half leafless branches.
Over the water thousands of gulls and terns, boobies and cormorants
were skimming and diving, while above them a number of graceful frigate
birds--those swart, scarlet-throated pirates of the air,--hung poised,
ready to swoop down and rob the weaker birds of their fish. All about
the headland and the surrounding water was life in fullest action. Even
from where he stood Blake could hear the harsh clamor of the seafowl.
In marked contrast to this scene, the plain was apparently lifeless.
When Blake rose, a small brown lizard darted away across the sand.
Otherwise there was neither sight nor sound of a living creature. Blake
pondered this as he gathered his clothes into the shade and began to
dress.
"Looks like the siesta is the all-round style in this God-forsaken
hole," he grumbled. "Haven't seen so much as a rabbit, nor even one
land bird. May be a drought--no; must be the dry season-- Whee, these
things are hot! I'm thirsty as a shark. Now, where's that softy and
her Ladyship? 'Fraid she's in for a tough time!"
He drew on his shoes with a jerk, growled at their stiffness, and club in
hand, stepped clear of the brush to look for his companions. The first
glance along the foot of the cliff showed him Winthrope lying under the
shade of the overhanging ledges, a few yards beyond the sand beach. Of
Miss Leslie there was no sign. Half alarmed by this, Blake started for
the beach with his swinging stride. Winthrope was awake, and on Blake's
approach, sat up to greet him.
"Hello!" he called. "Where have you been all this time?"
"'Sleep. Where's Miss Leslie?"
"She's around the point."
Blake grinned mockingly. "Indeed! But I fawncy she won't be for long."
He would have passed on, but Winthrope stepped before him.
"Don't go out there, Blake," he protested. "I--ah--think it would be
better if I went."
"Why?" demanded Blake.
Winthrope hesitated; but an impatient movement by Blake forced an answer:
"Well, you remember, this morning, telling us to dry our clothes."
"Yes; I remember," said Blake. "So you want to serve as lady's
valet?"
Winthrope's plump face turned a sickly yellow.
"I--ah--valet?--What do you mean, sir? I protest--I do not understand
you!" he stammered. But in the midst, catching sight of Blake's
bewildered stare, he suddenly flushed crimson, and burst out in
unrestrained anger: "You--you bounder--you beastly cad! Any man with
an ounce of decency--"
Blake uttered a jeering laugh-- "Wow! Hark, how the British lion
r-r-ro-ars when his tail's twisted!"
"You beastly cad!" repeated the Englishman, now purple with rage.
Blake's unpleasant pleasantry gave place to a scowl. His jaw thrust
out like a bulldog's, and he bent towards Winthrope with a menacing
look. For a moment the Englishman faced him, sustained by his anger. But
there was a steely light in Blake's eyes that he could not withstand.
Winthrope's defiant stare wavered and fell. He shrank back, the color
fast ebbing from his cheeks.
"Ugh!" growled Blake. "Guess you won't blat any more about cads! You
damned hypocrite! Maybe I'm not on to how you've been hanging around
Miss Leslie just because she's an heiress. Anything is fair enough for
you swells. But let a fellow so much as open his mouth about your exalted
set, and it's perfectly dreadful, you know!"
He paused for a reply. Winthrope only drew back a step farther, and
eyed him with a furtive, sidelong glance. This brought Blake back to
his mocking jeer. "You'll learn, Pat, me b'y. There's lots of
things'll show up different to you before we get through this picnic.
For one thing, I'm boss here--president, congress, and supreme court.
Understand?"
"By what right, may I ask?" murmured Winthrope.
"Right!" answered Blake. "That hasn't anything to do with the
question--it's might. Back in civilized parts, your little crowd has
the drop on my big crowd, and runs things to suit themselves. But
here we've sort of reverted to primitive society. This happens to be
the Club Age, and I'm the Man with the Big Stick. See?"
"I myself sympathize with the lower classes, Mr. Blake. Above all, I
think it barbarous the way they punish one who is forced by circumstances
to appropriate part of the ill-gotten gains of the rich upstarts. But
do you believe, Mr. Blake, that brute strength--"
"You bet! Now shut up. Where're the cocoanuts?"
Winthrope picked up two nuts and handed them over.
"There were only five," he explained.
"All right. I'm no captain of industry."
"Ah, true; you said we had reverted to barbarism," rejoined Winthrope,
venturing an attempt at sarcasm.
"Lucky for you!" retorted Blake. "But where's Miss Leslie all this
time? Her clothes must have dried hours ago."
"They did. We had luncheon together just this side of the point."
"Oh, you did! Then why shouldn't I go for her?"
"I--I--there was a shaded pool around the point, and she thought a dip
in the salt water would refresh her. She went not more than half an hour
ago."
"So that's it. Well, while I eat, you go and call her--and say, you
keep this side the point. I'm looking out for Miss Leslie now."
Winthrope hurried away, clenching his fists and almost weeping with
impotent rage. Truly, matters were now very different from what they had
been aboard ship. Fortunately he had not gone a dozen steps before Miss
Leslie appeared around the corner of the cliff. He was scrambling along
over the loose stones of the slope without the slightest consideration
for his ankle. The girl, more thoughtful, waved to him to wait for her
where he was.
As she approached, Blake's frown gave place to a look that made his
face positively pleasant. He had already drained the cocoanuts; now
he proceeded to smash the shells into small bits, that he might eat the
meat, and at the same time keep his gaze on the girl. The cliff foot
being well shaded by the towering wall of rock, she had taken off his
coat, and was carrying it on her arm; so that there was nothing to mar
the effect of her dainty openwork waist, with its elbow sleeves and
graceful collar and the filmy veil of lace over the shoulders and bosom.
Her skirt had been washed clean by the rain, and she had managed to
stretch it into shape before drying.
Refreshed by a nap in the forenoon and by her salt-water dip, she showed
more vivacity than at any time that Winthrope could remember during their
acquaintance. Her suffering during and since the storm had left its
mark in the dark circles beneath her hazel eyes, but this in no wise
lessened their brightness; while the elasticity of her step showed that
she had quite recovered her well-bred ease and grace of movement.
She bowed and smiled to the two men impartially. "Good-afternoon,
gentlemen."
"Same to you, Miss Leslie!" responded Blake, staring at her with frank
admiration. "You look fresh as a daisy."
Genial and sincere as was his tone, the familiarity jarred on her
sensitive ear. She colored as she turned from him.
"Is there anything new, Mr. Winthrope?" she asked.
"I'm afraid not, Miss Genevieve. Like ourselves, Blake took a nap."
"Yes; but Blake first took a squint at the scenery. Just see if you've
got everything, and fix your hats. We'll be in the sun for half a mile
or so. Better get on the coat, Miss Leslie. It's hotter than yesterday."
"Permit me," said Winthrope.
Blake watched while the Englishman held the coat for the girl and rather
fussily raised the collar about her neck and turned back the sleeves,
which extended beyond the tips of her fingers. The American's face
was stolid; but his glance took in every little look and act of his
companions. He was not altogether unversed in the ways of good society,
and it seemed to him that the Englishman was somewhat over-assiduous in
his attentions.
"All ready, Blake," remarked Winthrope, finally, with a last lingering
touch.
"'Bout time!" grunted Blake. "You're fussy as a tailor. Got the
flask and cigarette case and the knife?"
"All safe, sir--er--all safe, Blake."
"Then you two follow me slow enough not to worry that ankle. I don't
want any more of the pack-mule in mine."
"Where are we going, Mr. Blake?" exclaimed Miss Leslie. "You will not
leave us again!"
"It's only a half-mile, Miss Jenny. There's a break in the ridge. I'm
going on ahead to find if it's hard to climb."
"But why should we climb?"
"Food, for one thing. You see, this end of the cliff is covered with
sea-birds. Another thing, I expect to strike a spring."
"Oh, I hope you do! The water in the rain pools is already warm."
"They'll be dry in a day or two. Say, Winthrope, you might fetch some
of those stones--size of a ball. I used to be a fancy pitcher when I was
a kid, and we might scare up a rabbit or something."
"I play cricket myself. But these stones--"
"Better'n a gun, when you haven't got the gun. Come on. We'll go in
a bunch, after all, in case I need stones."
With due consideration for Winthrope's ankle,--not for Winthrope,--Blake
set so slow a pace that the half-mile's walk consumed over half an
hour. But his smouldering irritation was soon quenched when they drew
near the green thicket at the foot of the cleft. In the almost
deathlike stillness of mid-afternoon, the sound of trickling water came
to their ears, clear and musical.
"A spring!" shouted Blake. "I guessed right. Look at those green
plants and grass; there's the channel where it runs out in the sand and
dries up."
The others followed him eagerly as he pushed in among the trees. They
saw no running water, for the tiny rill that trickled down the ledges
was matted over with vines. But at the foot of the slope lay a pool, some
ten yards across, and overshadowed by the surrounding trees. There was
no underbrush, and the ground was trampled bare as a floor.
"By Jove," said Winthrope; "see the tracks! There must have been a
drove of sheep about."
"Deer, you mean," replied Blake, bending to examine the deeper prints
at the edge of the pool. "These ain't sheep tracks. A lot of them are
larger."
"Could you not uncover the brook?" asked Miss Leslie. "If animals have
been drinking here, one would prefer cleaner water."
"Sure," assented Blake. "If you're game for a climb, and can wait a
few minutes, we'll get it out of the spring itself. We've got to go
up anyway, to get at our poultry yard."
"Here's a place that looks like a path," called Winthrope, who had
circled about the edge of the pool to the farther side.
Blake ran around beside him, and stared at the tunnel-like passage which
wound up the limestone ledges beneath the over-arching thickets.
"Odd place, is it not?" observed Winthrope. "Looks like a fox run,
only larger, you know."
"Too low for deer, though--and their hoofs would have cut up the moss
and ferns more. Let's get a close look."
As he spoke, Blake stooped and climbed a few yards up the trail to an
overhanging ledge, four or five feet high. Where the trail ran up over
this break in the slope the stone was bare of all vegetation. Blake
laid his club on the top of the ledge, and was about to vault after it,
when, directly beneath his nose, he saw the print of a great catlike paw,
outlined in dried mud. At the same instant a deep growl came rumbling
down the "fox run." Without waiting for a second warning, Blake drew
his club to him, and crept back down the trail. His stealthy movements
and furtive backward glances filled his companions with vague terror.
He himself was hardly less alarmed.
"Get out of the trees--into the open!" he exclaimed in a hoarse
whisper, and as they crept away, white with dread of the unknown danger,
he followed at their heels, looking backward, his club raised in
readiness to strike.
Once clear of the trees, Winthrope caught Miss Leslie by the hand, and
broke into a run. In their terror, they paid no heed to Blake's command
to stop. They had darted off so unexpectedly that he did not overtake
them short of a hundred yards.
"Hold on!" he said, gripping Winthrope roughly by the shoulder. "It's
safe enough here, and you'll knock out that blamed ankle."
"What is it? What did you see?" gasped Miss Leslie.
"Footprint," mumbled Blake, ashamed of his fright.
"A lion's?" cried Winthrope.
"Not so large--'bout the size of a puma's. Must be a leopard's den
up there. I heard a growl, and thought it about time to clear out."
"By Jove, we'd better withdraw around the point!"
"Withdraw your aunty! There's no leopard going to tackle us out here in
open ground this time of day. The sneaking tomcat! If only I had a match,
I'd show him how we smoke rat holes."
"Mr. Winthrope spoke of rubbing sticks to make fire," suggested Miss
Leslie.
"Make sweat, you mean. But we may as well try it now, if we're going
to at all. The sun's hot enough to fry eggs. We'll go back to a shady
place, and pick up sticks on the way."
Though there was shade under the cliff within some six hundred feet,
they had to go some distance to the nearest dry wood--a dead thorp-bush.
Here they gathered a quantity of branches, even Miss Leslie volunteering
to carry a load.
All was thrown down in a heap near the cliff, and Blake squatted beside
it, penknife in hand. Having selected the dryest of the larger sticks,
he bored a hole in one side and dropped in a pinch of powdered bark.
Laying the stick in the full glare of the sun, he thrust a twig into the
hole, and began to twirl it between his palms. This movement he kept up
for several minutes; but whether he was unable to twirl the twig fast
enough, or whether the right kind of wood or tinder was lacking, all his
efforts failed to produce a spark.
Unwilling to accept the failure, Winthrope insisted upon trying in turn,
and pride held him to the task until he was drenched with sweat. The
result was the same.
"Told you so," jeered Blake from where he. lay in the shade. "We'd
stand more chance cracking stones together."
"But what shall we do now?" asked Miss Leslie. "I am becoming very
tired of cocoanuts, and there seems to be nothing else around here.
Indeed, I think this is all such a waste of time. If we had walked
straight along the shore this morning we might have reached a town."
"We might, Miss Jenny, and then, again, we mightn't. I happened to
overhaul the captain's chart--Quilimane, Mozambique--that's all
for hundreds of miles. Towns on this coast are about as thick as
hens'-teeth."
"How about native villages?" demanded Winthrope.
"Oh, yes; maybe I'm fool enough to go into a wild nigger town without a
gun. Maybe I didn't talk with fellows down on the Rand."
"But what shall we do?" repeated Miss Leslie, with a little frightened
catch in her voice. She was at last beginning to realize what this rude
break in her sheltered, pampered life might mean. "What shall we do?
It's--it's absurd to think of having to stay in this horrid country
for weeks or perhaps months--unless some ship comes for us!"
"Look here, Miss Leslie," answered Blake, sharply yet not unkindly;
"suppose you just sit back and use your thinker a bit. If you're
your daddy's daughter, you've got brains somewhere down under the
boarding-school stuff."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Now, don't get huffy, please! It's a question of think, not of
putting on airs. Here we are, worse off than the people of the Stone
Age. They had fire and flint axes; we've got nothing but our think
tanks, and as to lions and leopards and that sort of thing, it strikes me
we've got about as many on hand as they had."
"Then you and Mr. Winthrope should immediately arm yourselves."
"How?--But we'll leave that till later. What else?"
The girl gazed at the surrounding objects, her forehead wrinkled in the
effort at concentration. "We must have water. Think how we suffered
yesterday! Then there is shelter from wild beasts, and food, and--"
"All right here under our hands, if we had fire. Understand?"
"I understand about the water. You would frighten the leopard away with
the fire; and if it would do that, it would also keep away the other
animals at night. But as for food, unless we return for cocoanuts--"
"Don't give it up! Keep your thinker going on the side, while Pat tells
us our next move. Now that he's got the fire sticks out of his head--"
"I say, Blake, I wish you would drop that name. It is no harder to say
Winthrope."
"You're off, there," rejoined Blake. "But look here, I'll make it
Win, if you figure out what we ought to do next."
"Really, Blake, that would not be half bad. They--er--they called me Win
at Harrow."
"That so? My English chum went to Harrow--Jimmy Scarbridge."
"Lord James!--your chum?"
"He started in like you, sort of top-lofty. But he chummed all
right--after I took out a lot of his British starch with a good
walloping."
"Oh, really now, Blake, you can't expect any one with brains to believe
that, you know!"
"No; I don't know, you know,--and I don't know if you've got any
brains, you know. Here's your chance to show us. What's our next move?"
"Really, now, I have had no experience in this sort of thing--don't
interrupt, please! It seems to me that our first concern is shelter for
the night. If we should return to your tree nest, we should also be near
the cocoa palms."
"That's one side. Here's the other. Bar to wade across--sharks and
alligators; then swampy ground--malaria, mosquitoes, thorn jungle. Guess
the hands of both of you are still sore enough, by their look."
"If only I had a pot of cold cream!" sighed Miss Leslie.
"If only I had a hunk of jerked beef!" echoed Blake.
"I say, why couldn't we chance it for the night around on the seaward
face of the cliff?" asked Winthrope. "I noticed a place where the
ledges overhang--almost a cave. Do you think it probable that any wild
beast would venture so close to the sea?"
"Can't say. Didn't see any tracks; so we'll chance it for to-night.
Next!"
"By morning I believe my ankle will be in such shape that I could go
back for the string of cocoanuts which we dropped on the beach."
"I'll go myself, to-day, else we'll have no supper. Now we're getting
down to bedrock. If those nuts haven't been washed away by the tide,
we're fixed for to-night; and for two meals, such as they are. But what
next? Even the rain pools will be dried up by another day or so."
"Are not sea-birds good to eat?" inquired Miss Leslie.
"Some."
"Then, if only we could climb the cliff--might there not be another
place?"
"No; I've looked at both sides. What's more, that spotted tomcat has
got a monopoly on our water supply. The river may be fresh at low tide;
but we've got nothing to boil water in, and such bayou stuff is just
concentrated malaria."
"Then we must find water elsewhere," responded Miss Leslie. "Might
we not succeed if we went on to the other ridge?"
"That's the ticket! You've got a headpiece, Miss Jenny! It's too
late to start now. But first thing to-morrow I'll take a run down that
way, while you two lay around camp and see if you can twist some sort of
fish-line out of cocoanut fibre. By braiding your hair, Miss Jenny, you
can spare us your hair-pins for hooks."
"But, Mr. Blake, I'm afraid--I'd rather you'd take us with you. With
that dreadful creature so near--"
"Well, I don't know. Let's see your feet?"
Miss Leslie glanced at him, and thrust a slender foot from beneath her
skirt.
"Um-m--stocking torn; but those slippers are tougher than I thought.
Most of the way will be good walking, along the beach. We'll leave the
fishing to Pat--er--beg pardon--Win! With his ankle--"
"By Jove, Blake, I'll chance the ankle. Don't leave me behind. I give
you my word, you'll not have to lug me."
"Oh, of course, Mr. Winthrope must go with us!"
"'Fraid to go alone, eh?" demanded Blake, frowning.
His tone startled and offended her; yet all he saw was a politely
quizzical lifting of her brows.
"Why should I be afraid, Mr. Blake?" she asked.
Blake stared at her moodily. But when she met his gaze with a confiding
smile, he flushed and looked away.
"All right," he muttered; "well move camp together. But don't expect
me to pack his ludship, if we draw a blank and have to trek back without
food or water."
CHAPTER IX
THE LEOPARDS' DEN
While Blake made a successful trip for the abandoned cocoanuts, his
companions levelled the stones beneath the ledges chosen by Winthrope,
and gathered enough dried sea-weed along the talus to soften the hard
beds.
Soothed by the monotonous wash of the sea among the rocks, even Miss
Leslie slept well. Blake, who had insisted that she should retain his
coat, was wakened by the chilliness preceding the dawn. Five minutes
later they started on their journey.
The starlight glimmered on the waves and shed a faint radiance over the
rocks. This and their knowledge of the way enabled them to pick a path
along the foot of the cliff without difficulty. Once on the beach, they
swung along at a smart gait, invigorated by the cool air.
Dawn found them half way to their goal. Blake called a halt when the
first red streaks shot up the eastern sky. All stood waiting until
the quickly following sun sprang forth from the sea. Blake's first
act was to glance from one headland to the other, estimating their
relative distances. His grunt of satisfaction was lost in Winthrope's
exclamation, "By Jove, look at the cattle!"
Blake and Miss Leslie turned to stare at the droves of animals moving
about between them and the border of the tall grass. Miss Leslie was the
first to speak. "They can't be cattle, Mr. Winthrope. There are some
with stripes. I do believe they're zebras!"
"Get down!" commanded Blake. "They're all wild game. Those big
ox-like fellows to the left of the zebras are eland. Whee! wouldn't we
be in it if we owned that water hole? I'll bet I'd have one of those
fat beeves inside three days."
"How I should enjoy a juicy steak!" murmured Miss Leslie.
"Raw or jerked?" questioned Blake.
"What is 'jerked'?"
"Dried."
"Oh, no; I mean broiled--just red inside."
"I prefer mine quite rare," added Winthrope.
"That's the way you'll get it, damned rare--Beg your pardon, Miss
Jenny! Without fire, we'll have the choice of raw or jerked."
"Horrors!"
"Jerked meat is all right. You cut your game in strips--"
"With a penknife!" laughed Miss Leslie.
Blake stared at her glumly. "That's so. You've got it back on
me-- Butcher a beef with a penknife! We'll have to take it raw, and
dog-fashion at that."
"Haven't I heard of bamboo knives?" said Winthrope.
"Bamboo?"
"I'm sure I can't say, but as I remember, it seems to me that the
varnish-like glaze--"
"Silica? Say, that would cut meat. But where in--where in hades are the
bamboos?"
"I'm sure I can't say. Only I remember that I have seen them in other
tropical places, you know."
"Meantime I prefer cocoanuts, until we have a fire to broil our
steaks," remarked Miss Leslie.
"Ditto, Miss Jenny, long's we have the nuts and no meat. I'm a
vegetarian now--but maybe my mouth ain't watering for something else.
Look at all those chops and roasts and stews running around out there!"
"They are making for the grass," observed Winthrope. "Hadn't we
better start?"
"Nuts won't weigh so much without the shells. We'll eat right here."
There were only a few nuts left. They were drained and cracked and
scooped out, one after another. The last chanced to break evenly across
the middle.
"Hello," said Blake, "the lower part of this will do for a bowl, Miss
Jenny. When you've eaten the cream, put it in your pocket. Say, Win,
have you got the bottle and keys and--"
"All safe--everything."
"Are you sure, Mr. Winthrope?" asked Miss Leslie. "Men's pockets seem
so open. Twice I've had to pick up Mr. Blake's locket."
"Locket?" echoed Blake.
"The ivory locket. Women may be curious, Mr. Blake, but I assure you, I
did not look inside, though--"
"Let me--give it here--quick!" gasped Blake.
Startled by his tone and look, Miss Leslie caught an oval object from
the side pocket of the coat, and thrust it into Blake's outstretched
hand. For a moment he stared at it, unable to believe his eyes; then
he leaped up, with a yell that sent the droves of zebras and antelope
flying into the tall grass.
"Oh! oh!" screamed Miss Leslie. "Is it a snake? Are you bitten?"
"Bitten?--Yes, by John Barleycorn! Must have been fuzzy drunk to put it
in my coat. Always carry it in my fob pocket. What a blasted infernal
idiot I've been! Kick me, Win,--kick me hard!"
"I say, Blake, what is it? I don't quite take you. If you would only--"
"Fire!--_fire!_ Can't you see? We've got all hell beat! Look here."
He snapped open the slide of the supposed locket, and before either of
his companions could realize what he would be about, was focussing the
lens of a surveyor's magnifying-glass upon the back of Winthrope's
hand. The Englishman jerked the hand away--
"_Ow!_ That burns!"
Blake shook the glass in their bewildered faces.
"Look there!" he shouted, "there's fire; there's water; there's
birds' eggs and beefsteaks! Here's where we trek on the back trail.
We'll smoke out that leopard in short order!"
"You don't mean to say, Blake--"
"No; I mean to do! Don't worry. You can hide with Miss Jenny on the
point, while I engineer the deal. Fall in."
The day was still fresh when they found themselves back at the foot of
the cliff. Here arose a heated debate between the men. Winthrope, stung
by Blake's jeering words, insisted upon sharing the attack, though with
no great enthusiasm. Much to Blake's surprise, Miss Leslie came to the
support of the Englishman.
"But, Mr. Blake," she argued, "you say it will be perfectly safe for
us here. If so, it will be safe for myself alone."
"I can play this game without him."
"No doubt. Yet if, as you say, you expect to keep off the leopard with
a torch, would it not be well to have Mr. Winthrope at hand with other
torches, should yours burn out?"
"Yes; if I thought he'd be at hand after the first scare."
Winthrope started off, almost on a run. At that moment he might have
faced the leopard single-handed. Blake chuckled as he swung away after
his victim. Within ten paces, however, he paused to call back over his
shoulder: "Get around the point, Miss Jenny, and if you want something
to do, try braiding the cocoanut fibre."
Miss Leslie made no response; but she stood for some time gazing after
the two men. There was so much that was characteristic even in this rear
view. For all his anger and his haste, the Englishman bore himself
with an air of well-bred nicety. His trim, erect figure needed only a
fresh suit to be irreproachable. On the other hand, a careless observer,
at first glance, might have mistaken Blake, with his flannel shirt and
shouldered club, for a hulking navvy. But there was nothing of the
navvy in his swinging stride or in the resolute poise of his head as he
came up with Winthrope.
Though the girl was not given to reflection, the contrast between the two
could not but impress her. How well her countryman--coarse, uncultured,
but full of brute strength and courage--fitted in with these primitive
surroundings. Whereas Winthrope . . . . and herself . . . .
She fell into a kind of disquieted brown study. Her eyes had an odd
look, both startled and meditative,--such a look as might be expected
of one who for the first time is peering beneath the surface of things,
and sees the naked Realities of Life, the real values, bared of masking
conventions. It may have been that she was seeking to ponder the meaning
of her own existence--that she had caught a glimpse of the vanity and
wastefulness, the utter futility of her life. At the best, it could
only have been a glimpse. But was not that enough?
"Of what use are such people as I?" she cried. "That man may be rough
and coarse,--even a brute; but he at least does things--I'll show him
that I can do things, too!"
She hastened out around the corner of the cliff to the spot where they
had spent the night. Here she gathered together the cocoanut husks,
and seating herself in the shade of the overhanging ledges, began to
pick at the coarse fibre. It was cruel work for her soft fingers,
not yet fully healed from the thorn wounds. At times the pain and an
overpowering sense of injury brought tears to her eyes; still more
often she dropped the work in despair of her awkwardness. Yet always
she returned to the task with renewed energy.
After no little perseverance, she found how to twist the fibre and plait
it into cord. At best it was slow work, and she did not see how she
should ever make enough cord for a fish-line. Yet, as she caught the
knack of the work and her fingers became more nimble, she began to enjoy
the novel pleasure of producing something.
She had quite forgot to feel injured, and was learning to endure with
patience the rasping of the fibre between her fingers, when Winthrope
came clambering around the corner of the cliff.
"What is it?" she exclaimed, springing up and hurrying to meet him. He
was white and quivering, and the look in his eyes filled her with dread.
Her voice shrilled to a scream, "He's dead!"
Winthrope shook his head.
"Then he's hurt!--he's hurt by that savage creature, and you've run
off and left him--"
"No, no, Miss Genevieve, I must insist! The fellow is not even
scratched."
"Then why--?"
"It was the horror of it all. It actually made me ill."
"You frightened me almost to death. Did the beast chase you?"
"That would have been better, in a way. Really, it was horrible! I'm
still sick over it, Miss Genevieve."
"But tell me about it. Did you set fire to the bushes in the cleft, as
Mr. Blake--"
"Yes; after we had fetched what we could carry of that long grass--two
big trusses. It grows ten or twelve feet tall, and is now quite dry.
Part of it Blake made into torches, and we fired the bush all across
the foot of the cleft. Really, one would not have thought there was that
much dry wood in so green a dell. On either side of the rill the grass
and brush flared like tinder, and the flames swept up the cleft far
quicker than we had expected. We could hear them crackling and roaring
louder than ever after the smoke shut out our view."
"Surely, there is nothing so very horrible in that."
"No, oh, no; it was not that. But the beast--the leopard! At first we
heard one roar; then it was that dreadful snarling and yelling--most
awful squalling! . . . . The wretched thing came leaping and
tumbling down the path, all singed and blinded. Blake fired the big
truss of grass, and the brute rolled right into the flames. It was
shocking--dreadfully shocking! The wretched creature writhed and leaped
about till it plunged into the pool. . . . . When it sought to crawl
out, all black and hideous, Blake went up and killed it with his
club--crushed in its skull--Ugh!"
Miss Leslie gazed at the unnerved Englishman with calm scrutiny.
"But why should you feel so about it?" she asked. "Was it not the
beast's life against ours?"
"But so horrible a death!"
"I'm sure Mr. Blake would have preferred to shoot the creature, had he
a gun. Having nothing else than fire, I think it was all very brave of
him. Now we are sure of water and food. Had we not best be going?"
"It was to fetch you that Blake sent me."
Winthrope spoke with perceptible stiffness. He was chagrined, not only
by her commendation of Blake, but by the indifference with which she had
met his agitation.
They started at once, Miss Leslie in the lead. As they rounded the point,
she caught sight of the smoke still rising from the cleft. A little later
she noticed the vultures which were streaming down out of the sky from
all quarters other than seaward. Their focal point seemed to be the trees
at the foot of the cleft. A nearer view showed that they were alighting
in the thorn bushes on the south border of the wood.
Of Blake there was nothing to be seen until Miss Leslie, still in the
lead, pushed in among the trees. There they found him crouched beside
a small fire, near the edge of the pool. He did not look up. His eyes
were riveted in a hungry stare upon several pieces of flesh, suspended
over the flames on spits of green twigs.
"Hello!" he sang out, as he heard their footsteps. "Just in time, Miss
Jenny. Your broiled steak'll be ready in short order."
"Oh, build up the fire! I'm simply ravenous!" she exclaimed, between
impatience and delight.
Winthrope was hardly less keen; yet his hunger did not altogether blunt
his curiosity.
"I say, Blake," he inquired, "where did you get the meat?"
"Stow it, Win, my boy. This ain't a packing house. The stuff may be
tough, but it's not--er--the other thing. Here you are, Miss Jenny. Chew
it off the stick."
Though Winthrope had his suspicions, he took the piece of half-burned
flesh which Blake handed him in turn, and fell to eating without further
question. As Blake had surmised, the roast proved far other than
tender. Hunger, however, lent it a most appetizing flavor. The repast
ended when there was nothing left to devour. Blake threw away his empty
spit, and rose to stretch. He waited for Miss Leslie to swallow her
last mouthful, and then began to chuckle.
"What's the joke?" asked Winthrope.
Blake looked at him solemnly.
"Well now, that was downright mean of me," he drawled; "after robbing
them, to laugh at it!"
"Robbing who?"
"The buzzards."
"You've fed us on leopard meat! It's--it's disgusting!"
"I found it filling. How about you, Miss Jenny?"
Miss Leslie did not know whether to laugh or to give way to a feeling
of nausea. She did neither.
"Can we not find the spring of which you spoke?" she asked. "I am
thirsty."
"Well, I guess the fire is about burnt out," assented Blake. "Come on;
we'll see."
The cleft now had a far different aspect from what it had presented on
their first visit. The largest of the trees, though scorched about the
base, still stood with unwithered foliage, little harmed by the fire.
But many of their small companions had been killed and partly destroyed
by the heat and flames from the burning brush. In places the fire was yet
smouldering.
Blake picked a path along the edge of the rill, where the moist
vegetation, though scorched, had refused to burn. After the first
abrupt ledge, up which Blake had to drag his companions, the ascent
was easy. But as they climbed around an outjutting corner of the steep
right wall of the cleft, Blake muttered a curse of disappointment. He
could now see that the cleft did not run to the top of the cliff, but
through it, like a tiny box canyon. The sides rose sheer and smooth as
walls. Midway, at the highest point of the cleft, the baobab towered high
above the ridge crest, its gigantic trunk filling a third of the breadth
of the little gorge. Unfortunately it stood close to the left wall.
"Here's luck for you!" growled Blake. "Why couldn't the blamed old
tree have grown on the other side? We might have found a way to climb it.
Guess we'll have to smoke out another leopard. We're no nearer those
birds' nests than we were yesterday."
"By Jove, look here!" exclaimed Winthrope. "This is our chance for
antelope! Here by the spring are bamboos--real bamboos,--and only half
the thicket burned."
"What of them?" demanded Blake.
"Bows--arrows--and did you not agree that they would make knives?"
"Umph--we'll see. What is it, Miss Jenny?"
"Isn't that a hole in the big tree?"
"Looks like it. These baobabs are often hollow."
"Perhaps that is where the leopard had his den," added Winthrope.
"Shouldn't wonder. We'll go and see."
"But, Mr. Blake," protested the girl, "may there not be other
leopards?"
"Might have been; but I'll bet they lit out with the other. Look how
the tree is scorched. Must have been stacks of dry brush around the hole,
'nough to smoke out a fireman. We'll look and see if they left any soup
bones lying around. First, though, here's your drink, Miss Jenny."
As he spoke, Blake kicked aside some smouldering branches, and led the
way to the crevice whence the spring trickled from the rock into a
shallow stone basin. When all had drunk their fill of the clear cool
water, Blake took up his club and walked straight across to the baobab.
Less than thirty steps brought him to the narrow opening in the trunk
of the huge tree. At first he could make out nothing in the dimly lit
interior; but the fetid, catty odor was enough to convince him that he
had found the leopards' den.
He caught the vague outlines of a long body, crouched five or six
yards away, on the far side of the hollow. He sprang back, his club
brandished to strike. But the expected attack did not follow. Blake
glanced about as though considering the advisability of a retreat.
Winthrope and Miss Leslie were staring at him, white-faced. The sight of
their terror seemed to spur him to dare-devil bravado; though his
actions may rather have been due to the fact that he realized the
futility of flight, and so rose to the requirements of the situation--the
grim need to stand and face the danger.
"Get behind the bamboos!" he called, and as they hurriedly obeyed, he
caught up a stone and flung it in at the crouching beast.
He heard the missile strike with a soft thud that told him he had not
missed his mark, and he swung up his club in both hands. Given half a
chance, he would smash the skull of the female leopard as he had crushed
her blinded mate. . . . . One moment after another passed, and he stood
poised for the shock, tense and scowling. . . . . Not so much as a snarl
came from within. The truth flashed upon him.
"Smothered!" he yelled.
The others saw him dart in through the hole. A moment later two limp
grayish bodies were flung out into the open. Immediately after, Blake
reappeared, dragging the body of the mother leopard.
"It's all right; they're dead!" cried Winthrope, and he ran forward
to look at the bodies.
Miss Leslie followed, hardly less curious.
"Are they all dead, Mr. Blake?" she inquired.
"Wiped out--whole family. The old cat stayed by her kittens, and all
smothered together--lucky for us! Get busy with those bamboos, Win. I'm
going to have these skins, and the sooner we get the cub meat hung up
and curing, the better for us."
"Leopard meat again!" rejoined Winthrope.
"Spring leopard, young and tender! What more could you ask? Get a move
on you."
"Can I do anything, Mr. Blake?" asked Miss Leslie.
"Hunt a shady spot."
"But I really mean it."
"Well, if that's straight, you might go on along the gully, and see if
there's any place to get to the top. You could pick up sticks on the
way back, if any are left. We'll have to fumigate this tree hole before
we adopt it for a residence."
"Will it be long before you finish with your--with the bodies?"
"Well, now, look here, Miss Jenny; it's going to be a mess, and I
wouldn't mind hauling the carcasses clear down the gully, out of sight,
if it was to be the only time. But it's not, and you've got to get
used to it, sooner or later. So we'll start now."
"I suppose, if I must, Mr. Blake-- Really, I wish to help."
"Good. That's something like! Think you can learn to cook?"
"See what I did this morning."
Blake took the cord of cocoanut fibre which she held out to him, and
tested its strength.
"Well, I'll be--blessed!" he said. "This _is_ something like. If
you don't look out, you'll make quite a camp-mate, Miss Jenny. But
now, trot along. This is hardly arctic weather, and our abattoir don't
include a cold-storage plant. The sooner these lambs are dressed, the
better."
CHAPTER X
PROBLEMS IN WOODCRAFT
It was no pleasant sight that met Miss Leslie's gaze upon her return.
The neatest of butchering can hardly be termed aesthetic; and Blake
and Winthrope lacked both skill and tools. Between the penknife and an
improvised blade of bamboo, they had flayed the two cubs and haggled
off the flesh. The ragged strips, spitted on bamboo rods, were already
searing in the fierce sun-rays.
Miss Leslie would have slipped into the hollow of the baobab with her
armful of fagots and brush; but Blake waved a bloody knife above the body
of the mother leopard, and beckoned the girl to come nearer.
"Hold on a minute, please," he said. "What did you find out?"
Miss Leslie drew a few steps nearer, and forced herself to look at the
revolting sight. She found it still more difficult to withstand the
odor of the fresh blood. Winthrope was pale and nauseated. The sight of
his distress caused the girl to forget her own loathing. She drew a
deep breath, and succeeded in countering Blake's expectant look with a
half-smile.
"How well you are getting along!" she exclaimed.
"Didn't think you could stand it. But you've got grit all right, if
you _are_ a lady," Blake said admiringly. "Say, you'll make it yet!
Now, how about the gully?"
"There is no place to climb up. It runs along like this, and then slopes
down. But there is a cliff at the end, as high as these walls."
"Twenty feet," muttered Blake. "Confound the luck! It isn't that
jump-off; but how in--how are we going to get up on the cliff? There's
an everlasting lot of omelettes in those birds' nests. If only that
bloomin'--how's that, Win, me b'y?--that bloomin', blawsted baobab
was on t' other side. The wood's almost soft as punk. We could drive in
pegs, and climb up the trunk."
"There are other trees beyond it," remarked Miss Leslie.
"Then maybe we can shin up--"
"I fear the branches that overhang the cliff are too slender to bear any
weight."
"And it's too infernally high to climb up to this overhanging baobab
limb."
"I say," ventured Winthrope, "if we had a axe, now, we might cut up
one of the trees, and make a ladder."
"Oh, yes; and if we had a ladder, we might climb up the cliff!"
"But, Mr. Blake, is there not some way to cut down one of the trees? The
tree itself would be a ladder if it fell in such a way as to lean against
the cliff."
"There's only the penknife," answered Blake. "So I guess we'll
have to scratch eggs off our menu card. Spring leopard for ours! Now, if
you really want to help, you might scrape the soup bones out of your
boudoir, and fetch a lot more brush. It'll take a big fire to rid the
hole of that cat smell."
"Will not the tree burn?"
"No; these hollow baobabs have green bark on the inside as well as out.
Funny thing, that! We'd have to keep a fire going a long time to burn
through."
"Yet it would burn in time?"
"Yes; but we're not going to--"
"Then why not burn through the trunk of one of those small trees,
instead of chopping it down?"
"By--heck, Miss Jenny, you've got an American headpiece! Come on.
Sooner we get the thing started, the better."
Neither Winthrope nor Miss Leslie was reluctant to leave the vicinity
of the carcasses. They followed close after Blake, around the monstrous
bole of the baobab. A little beyond it stood a group of slender trees,
whose trunks averaged eight inches thick at the base. Blake stopped at
the second one, which grew nearest to the seaward side of the cleft.
"Here's our ladder," he said. "Get some firewood. Pound the bushes,
though, before you go poking into them. May be snakes here."
"Snakes?--oh!" cried Miss Leslie, and she stood shuddering at the
danger she had already incurred.
The fire had burnt itself out on a bare ledge of rock between them and
the baobab, and the clumps of dry brush left standing in this end of the
cleft were very suggestive of snakes, now that Blake had called attention
to the possibility of their presence.
He laughed at his hesitating companions. "Go on, go on! Don't squeal
till you're bit. Most snakes hike out, if you give them half a chance.
Take a stick, each of you, and pound the bushes."
Thus urged, both started to work. But neither ventured into the thicker
clumps. When they returned, with large armfuls of sticks and twigs, they
found that Blake had used his glass to light a handful of dry bark,
out in the sun, and was nursing it into a small fire at the base of the
tree, on the side next the cliff.
"Now, Miss Jenny," he directed, "you're to keep this going--not too
big a fire--understand? Same time you can keep on fetching brush to
fumigate your cat hole. It needs it, all right."
"Will not that be rather too much for Miss Leslie?" asked Winthrope.
"Well, if she'd rather come and rub brains on the skins,--Indian tan,
you know,--or--"
"How can you mention such things before a lady?" protested Winthrope.
"Beg your pardon, Miss Leslie! you see, I'm not much used to ladies'
company. Anyway, you've got to see and hear about these things. And
now I'll have to get the strings for Win's bamboo bows. Come on, Win.
We've got that old tabby to peel, and a lot more besides."
Miss Leslie's first impulse was to protest against being left alone,
when at any moment some awful venomous serpent might come darting at
her out of the brush or the crevices in the rocks. But her half-parted
lips drew firmly together, and after a moment's hesitancy, she forced
herself to the task which had been assigned her. The fire, once started,
required little attention. She could give most of her time to gathering
brush for the fumigation of the leopard den.
She had collected quite a heap of fuel at the entrance of the hollow,
when she remembered that the place would first have to be cleared of its
accumulation of bones. A glance at her companions showed that they were
in the midst of tasks even more revolting. It was certainly disagreeable
to do such things; yet, as Mr. Blake had said, others had to do them. It
was now her time to learn. She could see him smile at her hesitation.
Stung by the thought of his half contemptuous pity, she caught up a
forked stick, and forced herself to enter the tree-cave. The stench met
her like a blow. It nauseated and all but overpowered her. She stood
for several moments in the centre of the cavity, sick and faint. Had it
been even the previous day, she would have run out into the open air.
Presently she grew a little more accustomed to the stench, and began to
rake over the soft dry mould of the den floor with her forked stick.
Bones!--who had ever dreamed of such a mess of bones?--big bones and
little bones and skulls; old bones, dry and almost buried; mouldy bones;
bones still half-covered with bits of flesh and gristle--the remnants
of the leopard family's last meal.
At last all were scraped out and flung in a heap, three or four yards
away from the entrance. Miss Leslie looked at the result of her labor
with a satisfied glance, followed by a sigh of relief. Between the heat
and her unwonted exercise, she was greatly fatigued. She stepped around
to a shadier spot to rest.
With a start, she remembered the fire.
When she reached it there were only a few dying embers left. She gathered
dead leaves and shreds of fibrous inner bark, and knelt beside the
dull coals to blow them into life. She could not bear the thought of
having to confess her carelessness to Blake.
The hot ashes flew up in her face and powdered her hair with their gray
dust; yet she persisted, blowing steadily until a shred of bark caught
the sparks and flared up in a tiny flame. A little more, and she had a
strong fire blazing against the tree trunk.
She rested a short time, relaxing both mentally and physically in the
satisfying consciousness that Blake never should know how near she had
come to failing in her trust.
Soon she became aware of a keen feeling of thirst and hunger. She rose,
piled a fresh supply of sticks on the fire, and hastened back through
the cleft towards the spring. Around the baobab she came upon Winthrope,
working in the shade of the great tree. The three leopard skins had been
stretched upon bamboo frames, and he was resignedly scraping at their
inner surfaces with a smooth-edged stone. Miss Leslie did not look too
closely at the operation.
"Where is--he?" she asked.
Winthrope motioned down the cleft.
"I hope he hasn't gone far. I'm half famished. Aren't you?"
"Really, Miss Genevieve, it is odd, you know. Not an hour since, the
very thought of food--"
"And now you're as hungry as I am. Oh, I do wish he had not gone off
just at the wrong time!"
"He went to take a dip in the sea. You know, he got so messed up over
the nastiest part of the work, which I positively refused to do--"
"What's that beyond the bamboos?--There's something alive!"
"Pray, don't be alarmed. It is--er--it's all right, Miss Genevieve, I
assure you."
"But what is it? Such queer noises, and I see something alive!"
"Only the vultures, if you must know. Nothing else, I assure you."
"Oh!"
"It is all out of sight from the spring. You are not to go around the
bamboos until the--that is, not to-day."
"Did Mr. Blake say that?"
"Why, yes--to be sure. He also said to tell you that the cutlets were
on the top shelf."
"You mean --?"
"His way of ordering you to cook our dinner. Really, Miss Genevieve,
I should be pleased to take your place, but I have been told to keep
to this. It is hard to take orders from a low fellow,--very hard for
a gentleman, you know."
Miss Leslie gazed at her shapely hands. Three days since she could not
have conceived of their being so rough and scratched and dirty. Yet her
disgust at their condition was not entirely unqualified.
"At least I have something to show for them," she murmured.
"I beg pardon," said Winthrope.
"Just look at my hands--like a servant's! And yet I am not nearly so
ashamed of them as I would have fancied. It is very amusing, but do you
know, I actually feel proud that I have done something--something useful,
I mean."
"Useful?--I call it shocking, Miss Genevieve. It is simply vile that
people of our breeding should be compelled to do such menial work. They
write no end of romances about castaways; but I fail to see the romance
in scraping skins Indian fashion, as this fellow Blake calls it."
"I suppose, though, we should remember how much Mr. Blake is doing for
us, and should try to make the best of the situation."
"It has no best. It is all a beastly muddle," complained Winthrope,
and he resumed his nervous scraping at the big leopard skin.
The girl studied his face for a moment, and turned away. She had been
trying so hard to forget.
He heard her leave, and called after, without looking up: "Please
remember. He said to cook some meat."
She did not answer. Having satisfied her thirst at the spring, she took
one of the bamboo rods, with its haggled blackening pieces of flesh, and
returned to the fire. After some little experimenting, she contrived
a way to support the rod beside the fire so that all the meat would
roast without burning.
At first, keen as was her hunger, she turned with disgust from the
flabby sun-seared flesh; but as it began to roast, the odor restored her
appetite to full vigor. Her mouth fairly watered. It seemed as though
Winthrope and Blake would never come. She heard their voices, and took
the bamboo spit from the fire for the meat to cool. Still they failed to
appear, and unable to wait longer, she began to eat. The cub meat proved
far more tender than that of the old leopard. She had helped herself to
the second piece before the two men appeared.
"Hold on, Miss Jenny; fair play!" sang out Blake. "You've set to
without tooting the dinner-horn. I don't blame you, though. That smells
mighty good."
Both men caught at the hot meat with eagerness, and Winthrope promptly
forgot all else in the animal pleasure of satisfying his hunger. Blake,
though no less hungry, only waited to fill his mouth before investigating
the condition of the prospective tree ladder. The result of the attempt
to burn the trunk did not seem encouraging to the others, and Miss
Leslie looked away, that her face might not betray her, should he have
an inkling of her neglect. She was relieved by the cheerfulness of his
tone.
"Slow work, this fire business--eh? Guess, though, it'll go faster this
afternoon. The green wood is killed and is getting dried out. Anyway,
we've got to keep at it till the tree goes over. This spring leopard
won't last long at the present rate of consumption, and we'll need
the eggs to keep us going till we get the hang of our bows."
"What is that smoke back there?" interrupted Miss Leslie. "Can it be
that the fire down the cleft has sprung up again?"
"No; it's your fumigation. You had plenty of brush on hand, so I heaved
it into the hole, and touched it off. While it's burning out, you can
put in time gathering grass and leaves for a bed."
"Would you and Mr. Winthrope mind breaking off some bamboos for me?"
"What for?"
Miss Leslie colored and hesitated. "I--I should like to divide off a
corner of the place with a wall or screen."
Winthrope tried to catch Blake's eye; but the American was gazing at
Miss Leslie's embarrassed face with a puzzled look. Her meaning dawned
upon him, and he hastened to reply.
"All right, Miss Jenny. You can build your wall to suit yourself. But
there'll be no hurry over it. Until the rains begin, Win and I'll
sleep out in the open. We'll have to take turn about on watch at night,
anyway. If we don't keep up a fire, some other spotted kitty will be
sure to come nosing up the gully."
"There must also be lions in the vicinity," added Winthrope.
Miss Leslie said nothing until after the last pieces of meat had been
handed around, and Blake sprang up to resume work.
"Mr. Blake," she called, in a low tone; "one moment, please. Would it
save much bother if a door was made, and you and Mr. Winthrope should
sleep inside?"
"We'll see about that later," replied Blake, carelessly.
The girl bit her lip, and the tears started to her eyes. Even Winthrope
had started off without expressing his appreciation. Yet he at least
should have realized how much it had cost her to make such an offer.
By evening she had her tree-cave--house, she preferred to name it to
herself--in a habitable condition. When the purifying fire had burnt
itself out, leaving the place free from all odors other than the
wholesome smell of wood smoke, she had asked Blake how she could rake out
the ashes. His advice was to wet them down where they lay.
This was easier said than done. Fortunately, the spring was only a few
yards distant, and after many trips, with her palm-leaf hat for bowl,
the girl carried enough water to sprinkle all the powdery ashes. Over
them she strewed the leaves and grass which she had gathered while the
fire was burning. The driest of the grass, arranged in a far corner,
promised a more comfortable bed than had been her lot for the last three
nights.
During this work she had been careful not to forget the fire at the
tree. Yet when, near sundown, she called the others to the third meal
of leopard meat, Blake grumbled at the tree for being what he termed
such a confounded tough proposition.
"Good thing there's lots of wood here, Win," he added. "We'll keep
this fire going till the blamed thing topples over, if it takes a year."
"Oh, but you surely will not stay so far from the baobab to-night!"
exclaimed Miss Leslie.
"Hold hard!" soothed Blake. "You've no license to get the jumps yet
a while. We'll have another fire by the baobab. So you needn't worry."
A few minutes later they went back to the baobab, and Winthrope began
helping Miss Leslie to construct a bamboo screen in the narrow entrance
of the tree-cave, while Blake built the second fire.
As Winthrope was unable to tell time by the stars, Blake took the first
watch. At sunset, following the engineer's advice, Winthrope lay down
with his feet to the small watch-fire, and was asleep before twilight
had deepened into night. Fagged out by the mental and bodily stress of
the day, he slept so soundly that it seemed to him he had hardly lost
consciousness when he was roused by a rough hand on his forehead.
"What is it?" he mumbled.
"'Bout one o'clock," said Blake. "Wake up! I ran overtime, 'cause
the morning watch is the toughest. But I can't keep 'wake any longer."
"I say, this is a beastly bore," remarked Winthrope, sitting up.
"Um-m," grunted Blake, who was already on his back.
Winthrope rubbed his eyes, rose wearily, and drew a blazing stick from
the fire. With this upraised as a torch, he peered around into the
darkness, and advanced towards the spring.
When, having satisfied his thirst, he returned somewhat hurriedly to the
fire, he was startled by the sight of a pale face gazing at him from
between the leaves of the bamboo screen.
"My dear Miss Genevieve, what is the matter?" he exclaimed.
"Hush! Is he asleep?"
"Like a top."
"Thank Heaven! . . . . Good-night."
"Good-night--er--I say, Miss Genevieve--"
But the girl disappeared, and Winthrope, after a glance at Blake's
placid face, hurried along the cleft to stack the other fire. When he
returned he noticed two bamboo rods which Blake had begun to shape into
bow staves. He looked them over, with a sneer at Blake's seemingly
unskilful workmanship; but he made no attempt to finish the bows.
CHAPTER XI
A DESPOILED WARDROBE
Soon after sunrise Miss Leslie was awakened by the snap and dull crash of
a falling tree. She made a hasty toilet, and ran out around the baobab.
The burned tree, eaten half through by the fire, had been pushed over
against the cliff by Blake and Winthrope. Both had already climbed up,
and now stood on the edge of the cliff.
"Hello, Miss Jenny!" shouted Blake. "We've got here at last. Want
to come up?"
"Not now, thank you."
"It's easy enough. But you're right. Try your hand again at the
cutlets, won't you? While they're frying, we'll get some eggs for
dessert How does that strike you?"
"We have no way to cook them."
"Roast 'em in the ashes. So long!"
Miss Leslie cooked breakfast over the watch-fire, for the other had
been scattered and stamped out by the men when the tree fell. They came
back in good time, walking carefully, that they might not break the
eggs with which their pockets bulged. Between them, they had brought
a round dozen and a half. Blake promptly began stowing all in the hot
ashes, while Winthrope related their little adventure with unwonted
enthusiasm.
"You should have come with us, Miss Genevieve," he began. "This time
of day it is glorious on the cliff top. Though the rock is bare, there
is a fine view--"
"Fine view of grub near the end," interpolated Blake.
"Ah, yes; the birds--you must take a look at them, Miss Genevieve! The
sea end of the cliff is alive with them--hundreds and thousands, all
huddled together and fighting for room. They are a sight, I assure you!
They're plucky, too. It was well we took sticks with us. As it was,
one of the gannets--boobies, Blake calls them--caught me a nasty nip
when I went to lift her off the nest."
"Best way is to kick them off," explained Blake. "But the point
is that we've hopped over the starvation stile. Understand? The
whole blessed cliff end is an omelette waiting for our pan. Pass the
leopardettes, Miss Jenny."
When the last bit of meat had disappeared, Blake raked the eggs from the
ashes, and began to crack them, solemnly sniffing at each before he laid
it on its leaf platter. Some were a trifle "high." None, however, were
thrown away.
When it was all over, Winthrope contemplated the scattered shells with
a satisfied air.
"Do you know," he remarked, "this is the first time I have
felt--er--replenished since we found those cocoanuts."
"How about one of 'em now to top off on?" questioned Blake.
Miss Leslie sighed. "Why did you speak of them! I am still hungry enough
to eat more eggs--a dozen--that is, if we had a little salt and butter."
"And a silver cup and napkins!" added Blake. "About the salt, though,
we'll have to get some before long, and some kind of vegetable food. It
won't do to keep up this whole meat menu."
"If only those little bamboo sprouts were as good as they look--like a
kind of asparagus!" murmured Miss Leslie.
"I've heard that the Chinese eat them," said Winthrope.
"They eat rats, too," commented Blake.
"We might at least try them," persisted Miss Leslie.
"How? Raw?"
"I have heard papa tell of roasting corn when he was a boy."
"That's so; and roasting-ears are better than boiled. Win, I guess
we'll have a sample of bamboo asparagus _à la_ Les-lee!"
Winthrope took the penknife, and fetched a handful of young sprouts from
the bamboo thicket. They were heated over the coals on a grill of green
branches, and devoured half raw.
"Say," mumbled Blake, as he ruminated on the last shoot, "we're
getting on some for this smell hole of a coast: house and chicken ranch,
and vegetables in our front yard-- We've got old Bobbie Crusoe beat,
hands down, on the start-off, and he with his shipful of stuff for
handicap!"
"Then you believe that the situation looks more hopeful, Mr. Blake?"
"Well, we've at least got an extension on our note for a week or two.
But I'm not going to coddle you with a lot of lies, Miss Jenny. There's
the fever coming, sure as fate. I may stave it off a while; you and Win,
ten to one, will be down in a few days--and not a smell of quinine
in our commissary. Then there'll be dysentery and snakes and wild
beasts--No; we're not out of the woods yet, not by a--considerable."
"By Jove, Blake," muttered Winthrope, "I must say, you're not very
encouraging."
"Didn't say I was trying to be."
"But, Mr. Blake, I am sure papa will offer a large reward when the
steamer is reported as lost. There will be ships searching for us--"
"We're not in the British Channel, and I'll bet what few boats do
coast along here don't nose about much among these coral reefs."
"I fancy it would do no harm to erect a signal," said Winthrope.
"Only thing that would make a show is Miss Leslie's skirt," replied
Blake.
"There is the big leopard skin," persisted Winthrope. To his surprise
the engineer took the suggestion under serious consideration.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "If we had a water background, now.
But against the rock and trees,--no; what we want is white. I'll tell
you--when Miss Jenny sets to and makes herself a dress of that skin,
I'll fly her skirt to the zephyrs."
"Mr. Blake! I really think that is cruel of you!"
"Oh, come now; that's not fair! I wouldn't have said a word, but you
said you wanted to help."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. I--I did not quite understand you. I
really do want to help--to do my share--"
"Now you're talking! You see, it's not only a question of the signal,
but of clothes. We've got to figure anyway on needing new ones before
long. Look at my pants and vest, and Win's too. Inside a month we'll
all be in hide--or in hiding. That's a joke, Win, me b'y; see?"
"But in the meantime--" began Miss Leslie.
"In the meantime we're like to miss a chance or two of being picked
up, just because we've failed to stick out a signal that'd catch the
eye twice as far off as any other color than scarlet. Do you suppose I
worked my way up from axeman to engineer, and didn't learn anything
about flags?"
"But it is all really too absurd! I do not know the first thing about
sewing, and I have neither thread nor needle."
"It's up to you, though, if you want to help. My sisters sewed mighty
soon after they learned to toddle. 'Bout time you learned-- There, now;
I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You've made a fair stagger at
cooking, and I bet you win out on the dressmaking. For needle you can use
one of these long slim thorns--poke a hole, and then slip the thread
through, like a shoemaker."
"Ah, yes; but the thread?" put in Winthrope.
"The cocoanut fibre would hardly do," said Miss Leslie, forgetting to
dry her eyes.
"No. We could get fairly good fibres out of the palm leaves; but catgut
will be a whole lot better. I'll slit up a lot for you, fine enough
to sew with. And now, let's get down to tacks. No offence--but did
either of you ever learn to do anything useful in all your blessed
little lives?"
"Why, Mr. Blake, of course I--"
"Of course what?" demanded Blake, as Miss Leslie hesitated. "We know
all about your cooking and sewing. What else?"
"I--I see what you meant. I fear that nothing of what I learned would
be of service now."
"Boarding-school rot, eh? And you, Winthrope?"
"If you would kindly name over what you have in mind."
"Um!" grunted Blake. "Well, it's first of all a question of a
practical--practical, mind you,--knowledge of metallurgy, ceramics, and
how to stick an arrow through a beef roast."
"I--ah--I believe I intimated that I have some knowledge of archery. But
I doubt--"
"Cut it out! You'll have enough else to do. Get busy over those bows
and arrows, and don't quit till you've got them in shape. Leave my bow
good and stiff. I can pull like a mule can kick. Well, Miss Jenny; what
is it?"
"Is not--has not ceramics something to do with burning china?"
"Sure!--china, pottery, and all that. Know anything about it?"
"Why, I have a friend who amuses herself by painting china, and I know
it has to be burned."
"And that's all!" grunted Blake. "Well, let me tell you. When I was
a little kid I used to work in a pottery. All I can remember is that
they'd take clay, shape it into a pot, dry it, and bake the thing in a
kiln. We've got to work the same game somehow. This kind of eating will
mean dysentery in short order. So there's going to be a bean-pot for
our stews, or Tom Blake'll know the reason why. Nurse up that ankle of
yours, Win. We'll trek it to-morrow--cocoanuts, and maybe something
else. There's clay on the far bank of the river, and across from it I
saw a streak that looked like brown hæmatite."
CHAPTER XII
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
The next four days slipped by almost unheeded. Blake saw to it that
not only himself but his companions had work to occupy every hour of
daylight. When not engaged in cooking and fuel gathering, Miss Leslie
was learning by painful experience the rudiments of dressmaking.
At the start she had all but ruined the beautiful skin of the mother
leopard before Blake chanced to see her and took over the task of cutting
it into shape for a skirt. But when it came to making a waist of the
cub fur, he said that she would have to puzzle out the pattern from
her other one. Between cooking three meals a day over an open fire,
gathering several armfuls of wood, and making a dress with penknife,
thorn, and catgut, the girl had little time to think of other matters
than her work.
Winthrope had been gazetted as hunter in ordinary. His task was to
keep Miss Leslie supplied with fresh eggs and each day to kill as many
of the boobies and cormorants as he could skin and split for drying.
Blake had changed his mind about taking him when he went for cocoanuts.
Instead, he had gone alone on several trips, bringing three or four loads
of nuts, then a little salt from the seashore, dirty but very welcome,
and last of all a great lump of clay, wrapped in palm fronds.
With this clay he at once began experiments in the art of pottery. Having
mixed and beaten a small quantity, he moulded it into little cups and
bowls, and tried burning them over night in the watch-fire. A few came
out without crack or flaw. Vastly elated by this success, he fashioned
larger vessels from his clay, and within the week could brag of two pots
suitable for cooking stews, and four large nondescript pieces which he
called plates. What was more, all had a fairly good sand glaze, for he
had been quick to observe a glaze on the bottoms of the first pots, and
had reasoned out that it was due to the sand which had adhered while
they stood drying in the sun.
He next turned his attention to metallurgy. The first move was to search
the river bank for the brown bog iron ore which he believed he had seen
from the farther side. After a dangerous and exhausting day's work in
the mire and jungle, he came back with nothing more to show for his pains
than an armful of creepers. Late in the afternoon, he had located the
hæmatite, only to find it lying in a streak so thin that he could not
hope to collect enough for practical purposes.
"Lucky we've got something to fall back on," he added, after telling
of his failure. "Pass over those keys of yours, Win. Good! Now untangle
those creepers. To-night we'll take turns knotting them up into some
sort of a rope-ladder. I'm getting mighty weary of hoofing it all around
the point every time I trot to the river. After this I'll go down
the cliff at that end of the gully."
Winthrope, who had become very irritable and depressed during the last
two days, turned on his heel, with the look of a fretful child.
To cover this undiplomatic rudeness, Miss Leslie spoke somewhat
hurriedly. "But why should you return again to the river, Mr. Blake?
I'm sure you are risking the fever; and there must be savage beasts in
the jungle."
"That's my business," growled Blake. He paused a moment, and added,
rather less ungraciously, "Well, if you care, it's this way--I'm
going to keep on looking for ore. Give me a little iron ore, and we'll
mighty soon have a lot of steel knives and arrow-heads that'll amount to
something. How're we going to bag anything worth while with bamboo
tips on our arrows? Those boar tusks are a fizzle."
"So you will continue to risk your life for us? I think that is very
brave and generous, Mr. Blake!"
"How's that?" demanded Blake, not a little puzzled. He was fully
conscious of the risk; but this was the first intimation he had received
or conceived that his motives were other than selfish--"Um-m! So that's
the ticket. Getting generous, eh?"
"Not getting--you _are_ generous! When I think of all you have done for
us! Had it not been for you, I am sure we should have died that first day
ashore."
"Well, don't blame me. I couldn't have let a dog die that way; and
then, a fellow needs a Man Friday for this sort of thing. As for you, I
haven't always had the luck to be favored with ladies' company."
"Thank you, Mr. Blake. I quite appreciate the compliment. But now, I
must put on supper."
Blake followed her graceful movements with an intentness which, in
turn, drew Winthrope's attention to himself. The Englishman smiled
in a disagreeable manner, and resumed his work on the bows, with the
look of one mentally preoccupied. After supper he found occasion to
spend some little time among the bamboos.
When at sunset Miss Leslie withdrew into the baobab, Winthrope somewhat
officiously insisted upon helping her set up her screen in the entrance.
As he did so, he took the opportunity to hand her a bamboo knife, and
to draw her attention to several double-pointed bamboo stakes which he
had hidden under the litter.
"What is it?" she asked, troubled by his furtive glance back at Blake.
"Merely precaution, you know," he whispered. "The ground in there is
quite soft. It will be no trouble, I fancy, to put up the stakes, with
their points inclined towards the entrance."
"But why--"
"Not so loud, Miss Genevieve! It struck me that if any one should seek
to enter in the night, he would find these stakes deucedly unpleasant.
Be careful how you handle them. As you see, the sharper points, which
are to be set uppermost, run off into a razor edge. Put them up now,
before it grows too dark. You know how ninepins are set--that shape.
Good-night! You see, with these to guard the entrance, you need not be
afraid to go to sleep at once."
"Thank you," she whispered, and began to thrust the stakes into the
ground as he had directed.
He had not been mistaken. The vague doubts and fears which she already
entertained would have kept her awake throughout the night, but thanks
to the sense of security afforded by the sword-bayonets of her silent
little sentries, the girl was soon able to calm herself, and was fast
asleep long before Blake wakened Winthrope.
Immediately after breakfast, Blake--who had spent his watch in grinding
the edges from a stone and experimenting with split and bent twigs--put
Winthrope's keys in the fire, and began an attempt to shape them into
a knife-blade. To heat the steel to the required temperature, he used
a bamboo blowpipe, with his lungs for bellows.
Winthrope turned away with an indifferent bearing; but Miss Leslie found
herself compelled to stop and admire his dexterous use of his rude tools.
One after another, the keys were welded together, end to end, in a narrow
ribbon of steel. The thinnest one, however, was not fastened to the tip
until it had been used to burn a groove in the edge of a rib, selected
from among the bones which Miss Leslie had thrown out of the baobab.
The last key was then fastened to the others; the blade ground sharp,
tempered, and inserted in the groove. Finally, pieces of the key-ring
were fitted in bands around the bone, through notches cut in the ends of
the steel blade. The result was a bone-handled, bone-backed knife, with a
narrow cutting edge of fine steel.
Long before it was finished Miss Leslie had been forced away by the
requirements of her own work. In fact, Blake did not complete his task
until late in the afternoon. At the end, he spent more than an hour
grinding the handle into shape. When he came to show the completed knife
to Miss Leslie, he was fairly aglow with justifiable pride.
"How's that for an Eskimo job?" he demanded. "Bunch of keys and a
bone, eh?"
"You are certainly very ingenious, Mr. Blake!"
"Nixy! There's little of the inventor in my top piece--only some hustle
and a good memory. I was up in Alaska, you know. Saw a sight of Eskimo
work."
"Still, it is very skilfully done."
"That may be--Look out for the edge! It'd do to shave. No more bamboo
splinters for me--dull when you hit a piece of bone. I'm ready now to
skin a rhinoceros."
"If you can catch one!"
"Guess we could find enough of them around here, all right. But we'll
start in on some of Win's sheep and cattle."
"Oh, do! One grows tired of eggs, and all these sea-birds are so tough
and fishy, no matter how I cook them."
"We'll sneak down to the pool, and make a try with the bows this
evening. I'll give odds, though, that we draw a blank. Win's got the
aim, but no drive; I've got the drive, but no aim. Even if I hit an
antelope, I don't think a bamboo-pointed arrow would bother him much."
"Don't the savages kill game without iron weapons?"
"Sure; but a lot have flint points, and a lot of others use poison. I
know that the Apaches and some of those other Southern Indians used to
fix their arrows with rattlesnake poison."
"How horrible!"
"Well, that depends on how you look at it. I guess they thought guns
more horrible when they tackled the whites and got the daylight let
through 'em. At any rate, they swapped arrows for rifles mighty quick,
and any one who knows Apaches will tell you it wasn't because they
thought bullets would do less damage."
"Yet the thought of poison--"
"Yes; but the thought of self-preservation! Sooner than starve, I'd
poison every animal in Africa--and so would you."
"I--I--You put it in such a horrible way. One must consider others,
animals as well as people; and yet--"
"Survival of the fittest. I've read some things, and I'm no fool,
if I do say it myself. For instance, I'm the boss here, because I'm the
fittest of our crowd in this environment; but back in what's called
civilized parts, where the law lets a few shrewd fellows monopolize the
means of production, a man like your father--"
"Mr. Blake, it is not my fault if papa's position in the business
world--"
"Nor his, either--it's the cussed system! No; that's all right, Miss
Jenny. I was only illustrating. Now, I take it, both you and Win would
like to get rid of a boss like me, if you could get rid of Africa at the
same time. As it is, though, I guess you'd rather have me for boss,
and live, than be left all by your lonesomes, to starve."
"I--I'm sure there is no question of your leadership, Mr. Blake. We
have both tried our best to do what you have asked of us."
"_You_ have, at least. But I know. If a ship should come to-morrow,
it'd be Blake to the back seat. 'Papa, give this--er--person a check
for his services, while I chase off with Winnie, to get my look-in on
'Is Ri-yal 'Igh-ness.'"
Miss Leslie flushed crimson-- "I'm sure, Mr. Blake--"
"Oh, don't let that worry you, Miss Jenny. It don't me. I couldn't
be sore with you if I tried. Just the same, I know what it'll be like.
I've rubbed elbows enough with snobs and big bugs to know what kind of
consideration they give one of the mahsses--unless one of the mahsses
has the drop on them. Hello, Win! What's kept you so late?"
"None of your business!" snapped Winthrope.
Miss Leslie glanced at him, even more puzzled and startled by this
outbreak than she had been by Blake's strange talk. But if Blake was
angered, he did not show it.
"Say, Win," he remarked gravely, "I was going to take you down to the
pool after supper, on a try with the bows. But I guess you'd better stay
close by the fire."
"Yes; it is time you gave a little consideration to those who deserve
it," rejoined Winthrope, with a peevishness of tone and manner which
surprised Miss Leslie. "I tell you, I'm tired of being treated like a
dog."
"All right, all right, old man. Just draw up your chair, and get all
the hot broth aboard you can stow," answered Blake, soothingly.
Winthrope sat down; but throughout the meal, he continued to complain
over trifles with the peevishness of a spoiled child, until Miss Leslie
blushed for him. Greatly to her astonishment, Blake endured the nagging
without a sign of irritation, and in the end took his bow and arrows and
went off down the cleft, with no more than a quiet reminder to Winthrope
that he should keep near the fire.
When, shortly after dark, the engineer came groping his way back up the
gorge, he was by no means so calm. Out of six shots, he had hit one
antelope in the neck and another in the haunch; yet both animals had
made off all the swifter for their wounds.
The noise of his approach awakened Winthrope, who turned over, and began
to complain in a whining falsetto. Miss Leslie, who was peering out
through the bars of her screen, looked to see Blake kick the prostrate
man. His frown showed only too clearly that he was in a savage temper. To
her astonishment, he spoke in a soothing tone until Winthrope again
fell asleep. Then he quietly set about erecting a canopy of bamboos
over the sleeper.
Just why he should build this was a puzzle to the girl. But when she
caught a glimpse of Blake's altered expression, she drew a deep breath
of relief, and picked her way around the edge of her bamboo stakes, to
lie down without a trace of the fear which had been haunting her.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MARK OF THE BEAST
Morning found Winthrope more irritable and peevish than ever. Though
he had not been called on watch by Blake until long after midnight, he
had soon fallen asleep at his post and permitted the fire to die out.
Shortly before dawn, Blake was roused by a pack of jackals, snarling
and quarrelling over the half-dried seafowl. To charge upon the thieves
and put them to flight with a few blows of his club took but a moment.
Yet daylight showed more than half the drying frames empty.
Blake was staring glumly at them, with his broad back to Winthrope, when
Miss Leslie appeared. The sudden cessation of Winthrope's complaints
brought his companion around on the instant. The girl stood before him,
clad from neck to foot in her leopard-skin dress.
"Well, I'll be--dashed!" he exclaimed, and he stood staring at her
open-mouthed.
"I fear it will be warm. Do you think it becoming?" she asked,
flushing, and turning as though to show the fit of the costume.
"Do I?" he echoed. "Miss Jenny, you're a peach!"
"Thank you," she said. "And here is the skirt. I have ripped it open.
You see, it will make a fine flag."
"If it's put up. Seems a pity, though, to do that, when we're getting
on so fine. What do you say to leaving it down, and starting a little
colony of our own?"
Miss Leslie raised the skirt in her outstretched hands. Behind it her
face became white as the cloth.
"Well?" demanded Blake soberly, though his eyes were twinkling.
"You forget the fever," she retorted mockingly, and Blake failed to
catch the quaver beneath the light remark.
"Say, you've got me there!" he admitted. "Just pass over your flag,
and scrape up some grub. I'll be breaking out a big bamboo. There are
plenty of holes and loose stones on the cliff. We'll have the signal
up before noon."
Miss Leslie murmured her thanks, and immediately set about the
preparation of breakfast.
When Blake had the bamboo ready, with one edge of the broad piece of
white duck lashed to it with catgut as high up as the tapering staff
would bear, he called upon Winthrope to accompany him.
"You can go, too, Miss Jenny," he added. "You haven't been on the
cliff yet, and you ought to celebrate the occasion."
"No, thank you," replied the girl. "I'm still unprepared to climb
precipices, even though my costume is that of a savage."
"Savage? Great Scott! that leopard dress would win out against any set
of Russian furs a-going, and I've heard they're considered all kinds
of dog. Come on. I can swing you into the branches, and it's easy from
there up."
"You will excuse me, please."
"Yes, you can go alone," interposed Winthrope. "I am indisposed this
morning, and, what is more, I have had enough of your dictation."
"You have, have you?" growled Blake, his patience suddenly come to an
end. "Well, let me tell you, Miss Leslie is a lady, and if she don't
want to go, that settles it. But as for you, you'll go, if I have to
kick you every step."
Winthrope cringed back, and broke into a childish whine. "Don't--don't
do it, Blake--Oh, I say, Miss Genevieve, how can you stand by and see
him abuse me like this?"
Blake was grinning as he turned to Miss Leslie. Her face was flushed and
downcast with humiliation for her friend. It seemed incredible that a man
of his breeding should betray such weakness. A quick change came over
Blake's face.
"Look here," he muttered, "I guess I'm enough of a sport to know
something about fair play. Win's coming down with the fever, and's
no more to blame for doing the baby act than he'll be when he gets the
delirium, and gabbles."
"I will thank you to attend to your own affairs," said Winthrope.
"You're entirely welcome. It's what I'm doing.-- Do you understand,
Miss Jenny?"
"Indeed, yes; and I wish to thank you. I have noticed how patient you
have been--"
"Pardon me, Miss Leslie," rasped Winthrope. "Can you not see that for
a fellow of this class to talk of fair play and patience is the height
of impertinence? In England, now, such insufferable impudence--"
"That'll do," broke in Blake. "It's time for us to trot along."
"But, Mr. Blake, if he is ill--"
"Just the reason why he should keep moving. No more of your gab, Win!
Give your jaw a lay-off, and try wiggling your legs instead."
Winthrope turned away, crimson with indignation. Blake paused only for
a parting word with Miss Leslie. "If you want something to do, Miss
Jenny, try making yourself a pair of moccasins out of the scraps of skin.
You can't stay in this gully all the time. You've got to tramp around
some, and those slippers must be about done for."
"They are still serviceable. Yet if you think--"
"You'll need good tough moccasins soon enough. Singe off the hair, and
make soles of the thicker pieces. If you do a fair job, maybe I'll
employ you as my cobbler, soon as I get the hide off one of those
skittish antelope."
Miss Leslie nodded and smiled in response to his jesting tone. But as
he swung away after Winthrope, she stood for some time wondering at
herself. A few days since she knew she would have taken Blake's remark
as an insult. Now she was puzzled to find herself rather pleased that
he should so note her ability to be of service.
When she roused herself, and began singeing the hair from the odds and
ends of leopard skin, she discovered a new sensation to add to her
list of unpleasant experiences. But she did not pause until the last
patch of hair crisped close to the half-cured surface of the hide.
Fetching the penknife and her thorn and catgut from the baobab, she
gathered the pieces of skin together, and walked along the cleft to
the ladder-tree. There had been time enough for Blake and Winthrope
to set up the signal, and she was curious to see how it looked.
She paused at the foot of the tree, and gazed up to where the withered
crown lay crushed against the edge of the cliff. The height of the rocky
wall made her hesitate; yet the men, in passing up and down, had so
cleared away the twigs and leaves and broken the branches on the upper
side of the trunk, that it offered a means of ascent far from difficult
even for a young lady.
The one difficulty was to reach the lower branches. She could hardly
touch them with her finger-tips. But her barbaric costume must have
inspired her. She listened for a moment, and hearing no sound to indicate
the return of the men, clasped the upper side of the trunk with her hands
and knees, and made an energetic attempt to climb. The posture was
far from dignified, but the girl's eyes sparkled with satisfaction
as she found herself slowly mounting.
When, flushed and breathless, she gained a foothold among the branches,
she looked down at the ground, and permitted herself a merry little
giggle such as she had not indulged in since leaving boarding-school.
She had actually climbed a tree! She would show Mr. Blake that she was
not so helpless as he fancied.
At the thought, she clambered on up, finding that the branches made
convenient steps. She did not look back, and the screen of tree-tops
beneath saved her from any sense of giddiness. As her head came above
the level of the cliff, she peered through the foliage, and saw the
signal-flag far over near the end of the headland. The big piece of white
duck stood out bravely against the blue sky, all the more conspicuous
for the flocks of frightened seafowl which wheeled above and around it.
Surprised that she did not see the men, Miss Leslie started to draw
herself up over the cliff edge. She heard Winthrope's voice a few yards
away on her left. A sudden realization that the Englishman might consider
her exploit ill-bred caused her to sink back out of sight.
She was hesitating whether to descend or to climb on up, when
Winthrope's peevish whine was cut short by a loud and angry retort
from Blake. Every word came to the girl's ears with the force of a blow.
"You do, do you? Well, I'd like to know where in hell you come in.
She's not your sister, nor your mother, nor your aunt, and if she's
your sweetheart, you've both been damned close-mouthed over it."
There was an irritable, rasping murmur from Winthrope, and again came
Blake's loud retort.
"Look here, young man, don't you forget you called me a cad once
before. I can stand a good deal from a sick man; but I'll give it to you
straight, you'd better cut that out. Call me a brute or a savage, if
that'll let off your steam; but, understand, I'm none of your English
kinds."
Again Winthrope spoke, this time in a fretful whine.
Blake replied with less anger: "That's so; and I'm going to show
you that I'm the real thing when it comes to being a sport. Give you
my word, I'll make no move till you're through the fever and on your
legs again. What I'll do then depends on my own sweet will, and don't
you forget it. I'm not after her fortune. It's the lady herself that
takes my fancy. Remember what I said to you when you called me a cad
the other time. You had your turn aboard ship. Now I can do as I please;
and that's what I'm going to do, if I have to kick you over the cliff
end first, to shut off your pesky interference."
The girl crouched back into the withered foliage, dazed with terror.
Again she heard Blake speak. He had dropped into a bitter sneer.
"No chance? It's no nerve, you mean. You could brain me, easy enough,
any night--just walk up with a club when I'm asleep. Trouble is,
you're like most other under dogs--'fraid that if you licked your
boss, there'd be no soup bones. So I guess I'm slated to stay boss of
this colony--grand Poo Bah and Mikado, all in one. Understand? You
mind your own business, and don't go to interfering with me any more!
. . . . Now, if you've stared enough at the lady's skirt--"
The threat of discovery stung the girl to instant action. With almost
frantic haste, she scrambled down to the lower branches, and sprang to
the ground. She had never ventured such a leap even in childhood. She
struck lightly but without proper balance, and pitched over sideways.
Her hands chanced to alight upon the remnants of leopard skin. Great
as was her fear, she stopped to gather all together in the edge of her
skirt before darting up the cleft.
At the baobab she turned and gazed back along the cliff edge. Before
she had time to draw a second breath, she caught a glimpse of Blake's
palm-leaf hat, near the crown of the ladder tree.
"O-o-h!--he didn't see me!" she murmured. Her frantic strength
vanished, and a deathly sickness came upon her. She felt herself going,
and sought to kneel to ease the fall.
She was roused from the swoon by Blake's resonant shout: "Hey, Miss
Jenny! where are you? We've got your laundry on the pole in fine shape!"
The girl's flaccid limbs grew tense, and her body quivered with a
shudder of dread and loathing. Yet she set her little white teeth, and
forced herself to rise and go out to face the men. Both met her look
with a blank stare of consternation.
"What is it, Miss Genevieve?" cried Winthrope. "You're white as
chalk!"
"It's the fever!" growled Blake. "She's in the cold stage. Get a
pot on. We'll--"
"No, no; it's not that! It's only--I've been frightened!"
"Frightened?"
"By a--a dreadful beast!"
"Beast!" repeated Blake, and his pale eyes flashed as he sprang across
to where his bow and arrows and his club leaned against the baobab.
"I'll have no beasts nosing around my dooryard! Must be that skulking
lion I heard last night. I'll show him!" He caught up his weapons
and stalked off down the cleft.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Winthrope; "the man really must be mad. Call him
back, Miss Genevieve. If anything should happen to him--"
"If only there might!" gasped the girl.
"Why, what do you mean?"
She burst into a hysterical laugh. "Oh! oh! it's such a joke--such a
joke! At least he's not a hyena--oh, no; a brave beast! Hear him shout!
And he actually thinks it's a lion! But it isn't--it's himself! Oh,
dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?"
"Miss Genevieve, what do you mean? Be calm, pray, be calm!"
"Calm!--when I heard what he said? Yes; I heard every word! In the top
of the tree--"
"In the tree? Heavens! Miss--er--Miss Genevieve!" stammered Winthrope,
his face paling. "Did you--did you hear all?"
"Everything--everything he said! What shall I do? I am so frightened!
What shall I do?"
"Everything _he_ said?" echoed Winthrope.
"You spoke too low for me to hear; but I'm sure you faced him like a
gentleman--I must believe it of you--"
Winthrope drew in a deep breath. "Ah, yes; I did, Miss Genevieve--I
assure you. The beast! Yet you see the plight I am in. It is a nasty
muddle--indeed it is! But what can I do? He is strong as a gorilla.
Really, there is only one way--no doubt you heard him taunt me over
it. I assure you I should not be afraid--but it would be so horrid--so
cold-blooded. As a gentleman, you know--"
"No; it is not that!" broke in the girl. "He is right. Neither of us
has the courage--even when he is asleep."
"My dear Miss Genevieve, this beast instinct to kill--"
"Yes; but think of him. If he is a beast, he is at least a brave one.
While we--we haven't the courage of rabbits. I thought you called
yourself an English gentleman. Are you going to stand by, and not lift
a finger?"
"Really, now, Miss Genevieve, to murder a man--"
"Self-defence is not a crime--self-preservation. If you have a spark of
manhood--"
"My dear--"
"For Heaven's sake, if you can't do anything, at least keep still! Oh,
I'm sure I shall go mad! If only I had been drowned!"
"Ah, yes, to be sure. But really now, what you ask is a good deal for a
man to risk. The fellow might wake up and murder me! Should I take the
risk, might I--er--expect some manifestation of your gratitude, Miss
Genevieve?"
"Of course! of course! I should always--"
"I--ah--refer to the--the--bestowal of your hand."
"My hand? I-- Would you bargain for my esteem? I thought you a
gentleman!"
"To be sure--to be sure! Who says I am not? But all is fair in love
and war, you know. Your choice is quite free. I take it, you will not
consider his--er--proposals. But if you do not wish my aid, you have
another way of escape--that is--at least other women have done it."
The girl gazed at him, her eyes dilating with horror as she realized his
meaning.
"No, no; not that!" she gasped. "I want to live--I've a right to
live! Why, I'm only just twenty-two--I--"
"Hush!" cautioned Winthrope. "He's coming back. Be calm! There will
be time until I get over this vile malaria. It may be that he himself
will have the fever."
"He will not have the fever," replied the girl, in a hopeless tone,
and she leaned back listlessly against the baobab, as Blake swung himself
up, frowning and sullen, and flung his weapons from him.
"Bah!" he grumbled, "I told you that brute was a sneak. I've chased
clean down to the pool and into the open, and not a smell of him. Must
have hiked off into the tall grass the minute he heard me."
"If only he had gone off for good!" murmured Miss Leslie.
"Maybe he has; though you never can count on a sneak. Even you might
be able to shoo him off next time; but, like as not, he'd come along
when we were all out calling, and clean out our commissary. Guess I'll
set to and run up a barricade down there where the gully is narrowest.
There're shoals of dead thorn-brush to the right of the pool."
"Ah, yes; I fancy the vultures will be so vexed when they find your
hedge in the way," remarked Winthrope.
"My! how smart we're getting!" retorted Blake. "Don't worry,
though. We'll stow the stuff in Miss Jenny's boudoir, and I guess the
birdies'll be polite enough to keep out."
"I must say, Blake, I do not see why you should wish to drag us away
from here."
"There're lots of things you don't see, Win, me b'y--jokes, for
instance. But what could you expect?--you're English. Now, don't get
mad. Worst thing in the world for malaria."
"One would fancy you could see that I am not angry. I've a splitting
headache, and my back hurts. I am ill."
Blake looked him over critically, and nodded. "That's no lie, old
man. You're entitled to a hospital check all right. Miss Jenny, we'll
appoint you chief nurse. Make him comfortable as you can, and give him
hot broth whenever he'll take it. You can do your sewing on the side.
Whenever you need help, call on me. I'm going to begin that barricade."
CHAPTER XIV
FEVER AND FIRE AND FEAR
By nightfall Winthrope was tossing and groaning on the bed of leaves
which Miss Leslie had heaped beneath his canopy. Though not delirious,
his high temperature, coupled with the pains which racked every nerve and
bone in his body, rendered him light-headed. He would catch himself up in
the midst of some rambling nonsense to inquire anxiously whether he had
said anything silly or strange. On being reassured upon this, he would
relax again, and, as likely as not, break into a babyish wail over his
aches and pains.
Blake shook his head when he learned that the attack had not been
preceded by a chill.
"Guess he's in for a hot time," he said. "There is more'n one kind
of malarial fever. Some are a whole lot like typhus."
"Typhus? What is that?" asked Miss Leslie.
"Sort of rapid fire, double action typhoid. Not that I think Win's got
it--only malaria. What gets me is that we've only been here these few
days, and yet it looks like he's got the continuous, no-chill kind."
"Then you think he will be very ill?"
"Well, I guess he'll think so. It ought to run out in a week or ten
days, though. We've had good water, and it usually takes time for
malaria to soak in deep. Now, don't worry, Miss Jenny. It'll do him no
good, and you a lot of harm. Take things easy as you can, for you've
got to keep up your strength. If you don't, you'll be down yourself
before Win is up."
"Ill while he is helpless and unable--? Oh, no; that cannot be! I must
not give way to the fever until--"
"Don't worry. You'll likely stave it off for a couple of weeks or so.
You're lively yet, and that's a good sign. I knew Win was in for it
when he began to grouch and loaf and do the baby act. I haven't much use
for dudes in general, and English dudes in particular; but I'll admit
that, while Win's soft enough in spots, he's not all mush and milk."
"Thank you, Mr. Blake."
"You're welcome. I couldn't say less, seeing that Win can't speak for
himself. Now you tumble in and get a good sleep. I'll go on as night
nurse, and work at the barricade same time. You're not going to do any
night-nursing. I can gather the thorn-brush in the afternoons, and pile
it up at night."
In the morning Miss Leslie found that Blake had built a substantial
canopy over the invalid, in place of the first ramshackle structure.
"It's best for him to be out in the air," he explained; "so I fixed
this up to keep off the dew. But whenever it rains, we'll have to tote
him inside."
"Ah, yes; to be sure. How is he?" murmured the girl.
"He's about the same this morning. But he got a little sleep. Keep him
dosed with all the hot broth he'll take. And say, roust me out at noon.
I've had my breakfast. Now I'll have a snooze. So long!"
He nodded, and crawled under the shade of the nearest bush, too drowsy
to observe her look of dismay.
At noon, having learned that Winthrope's condition showed little change,
Blake ate a hearty meal, and at once set off down the cleft. He did not
reappear until nightfall; though at intervals Miss Leslie had heard
his step as he came up the ravine with his loads of thorn-brush.
This course of action became the routine for the following ten days. It
was broken only by three incidents, all relating to the important matter
of food supply. Winthrope had soon tired of broth, and showed such an
insatiable craving for cocoanut milk that the stock on hand had become
exhausted within the week.
The day after, Blake took the rope ladder, as he called the tangle of
knotted creepers, and went off towards the north end of the cleft. When
he returned, a little before dark, the lower part of his trousers was
torn to shreds, and the palms of his hands were blistered and raw; but he
carried a heavy load of cocoanuts. After a vain attempt to climb the
giant palms on the far side of the river, he had found another grove
near at hand, in the little plain, and had succeeded in reaching the tops
of two of the smaller palms.
Under his directions, Miss Leslie clarified a bowl of bird
fat--goose-grease, Blake called it,--and dressed his hands. Yet even
with the bandages which she made of soft inner bark and the
handkerchiefs, he was unable to handle the thorn-brush the following day.
Unfortunately for him, he was not content to sit idle. During the night
he had cut a bamboo fishing-pole and lengthened Miss Leslie's line of
plaited cocoanut-fibre with a long catgut leader. In the afternoon he
completed his outfit with a hairpin hook and a piece of half-dried meat.
He was back an hour earlier than usual, and he brought with him a dozen
or more fair-sized fish. His mouth was watering over the prospective
feast, and Miss Leslie showed herself hardly less eager for a change
from their monotonous diet. As the fish were already dressed, she raked
up the coals and quickly contrived a grill of green bamboos.
When the odor of the broiling fish spread about in the still air, even
Winthrope sniffed and turned over, while Blake watched the crisping
delicacies with a ravenous look. Unable to restrain himself, he caught
up the smallest fish, half cooked, and bolted it down with such haste
that he burnt his mouth. He ran over to the spring for a drink, and
Winthrope cackled derisively.
Miss Leslie was too absorbed in her cooking to observe the result of
Blake's greediness. She had turned the fish for the last time, and was
about to lift them off the fire, when Blake came running back, and sent
grill and all flying with a violent kick.
"Salt!" he gasped--"where's the salt? I'm poisoned!"
"Poisoned?"
"Poison fish! Don't eat! God!--Where's the salt?"
The girl stared at him. His agony was so great that beads of sweat
were rolling down his face. He writhed, and stretched out a quivering
hand--"Salt, quick!--warm water--salt!"
"But there's none left! You remember, yesterday--"
"God!" groaned Blake, and for a moment he sank down, overcome by a
racking convulsion. Then his jaw closed like a bulldog's, and gritting
his teeth with the effort, he staggered up and rushed off down the cleft.
"Stop! stop, Mr. Blake! Where are you going?" screamed the girl.
She started to run after him, but was halted by an outburst of delirious
laughter. Winthrope was sitting upright and waving his fever-blotched
hands--"Hi, hi! look at 'im run! 'E's got w'at'll do for 'im! Run,
you swine; you--"
There followed a torrent of cockney abuse so foul that Miss Leslie
blushed scarlet with shame as she sought to quiet him. But the excitement
had so heightened his fever that he was in a raving delirium. It was
close upon midnight before his temperature fell, and he sank into a
death-like torpor. In her ignorance, she supposed that he had fallen
asleep.
Her relief was short-lived, for soon she remembered Blake. She could
see him lying beside the pool or out on the bare plain, his resolute
eyes cold and glassy, his powerful body contorted in the death agony.
The vision filled her with dismay. With all his coarseness, the man had
showed himself so resourceful, so indomitable, that when she sought to
dwell upon her reasons to fear him, she found herself admiring his virile
manliness. He might be a brute, but he did not belong among the jackals
and hyenas. Indeed, as she called to mind his strong face and frank,
blunt speech she all but disbelieved what her own ears had heard.
And anyway, without his aid, what should she do? Winthrope had already
become as weak as a child. The emaciation of his jaundiced features was a
mockery of their former plumpness. Blake had said that the fever might
run on for another week, and that even if Winthrope recovered, he would
probably be helpless for several days besides.
What was no less serious, though she had concealed the fact from Blake,
she herself had been troubled the past week with the depression and
lassitude which had preceded Winthrope's attack. If Blake was dead,
and she should fall ill before Winthrope recovered, they would both die
from lack of care. And if they did not die of the fever, what of their
future, here on this desolate savage coast!
But the very keenness of her mental anguish so exhausted and numbed the
girl's brain that she at last fell into a heavy sleep. The fire burned
low, and shadowy forms began to creep from behind the bamboos and the
trees and rocks down the gorge. There was no sound; but greedy, wolfish
eyes gleamed in the starlight.
Only the day before Blake had told Miss Leslie to store the last rack of
cured meat inside the baobab. The two sleepers lay between the fire and
the entrance to the hollow. Slowly the embers of the fire died away
into gray ashes, and slowly the night prowlers drew nearer. The boldest
of the pack crept close to Miss Leslie, and, with teeth bared and back
bristling, sniffed at the edge of her skirt. Whether because of her
heavy breathing or the odor of the leopard skin, the beast drew away,
with an uneasy whine.
There was a pause; then, backed by three others, the leader approached
Winthrope. He was still lying in the death-like torpor, and he lacked
the protection which, in all likelihood, the leopard skin had given Miss
Leslie. The cowardly brutes took him for dead or dying. They sniffed at
him from head to foot, and then, with a ferocious outburst of snarls and
yells, flung themselves upon him.
Had it not chanced that Winthrope was lying upon his side, with one arm
thrown up, he would have been fatally wounded by the first slashing
bites of his assailants. The two which sought to tear him were baffled
by the thick folds of Blake's coat, while their leader's slash at the
victim's throat was barred by the upraised arm. With a savage snap,
the beast's jaws closed on the arm, biting through to the bone. At the
same instant the fourth jackal tore ravenously at one of the outstretched
legs.
With a shriek of agony, Winthrope started up from his torpor, and struck
out frantically in a fury of pain and terror. Startled by the violence
of this unexpected resistance, the jackals leaped back--only to spring
in again as the remainder of the pack made a rush to forestall them.
Winthrope was staggering to his feet, when the foremost brute leaped
upon him. He fell heavily against one of the main supports of his bamboo
canopy, and the entire structure came down with a crash. Two of the
jackals, caught beneath the roof, howled with fear as they sought to
free themselves. The others, with brute dread of an unknown danger,
drew away, snarling and gnashing their teeth.
Wakened by the first ferocious yelps of Winthrope's assailants, Miss
Leslie had started up and stared about in the darkness. On all sides she
could see pairs of fiery eyes and dim forms like the phantom creatures
of a nightmare. Winthrope's shriek, instead of spurring her to action,
only confused her the more and benumbed her faculties. She thought it
was his death cry, and stood trembling, transfixed with horror.
Then came the fall of the canopy. His cries as he sought to throw it off
showed that he was still alive. In a flash her bewilderment vanished. The
stagnant blood surged again through her arteries in a fiery, stimulating
torrent. With a cry, to which primeval instinct lent a menacing note,
she groped her way to the fallen canopy, and stooped to lift up one side.
"Quick!--into the tree!" she called.
Still frantic with terror, Winthrope struggled to his feet. She thrust
him towards the baobab, and followed, dragging the mass of interwoven
bamboos. Emboldened by the retreat of their quarry, the snarling pack
instantly began to close in. Fortunately they were too cowardly to rush
at once, and fear spurred their intended victims to the utmost haste.
Groping and stumbling, the two felt their way to the baobab, and Miss
Leslie pushed Winthrope headlong through the entrance. As he fell, she
turned to face the pack.
The foremost beasts were at the rear edge of the bamboo framework, their
eyes close to the ground. Instinct told her that they were crouching to
leap. With desperate strength she caught up the canopy before her like
a great shield, and drew it in after her until the ends of the cross-bars
were wedged fast against the sides of the opening. Though it seemed
so firm, she clung to it with a convulsive grasp as she felt the pack
leaders fling themselves against the outer side.
But Blake had lashed the bamboos securely together, and none of the
beasts was heavy enough to snap the supple bars. Finding that they could
not break down the barrier, they began to scratch and tear at the thatch
which covered the frame. Soon a pair of lean jaws thrust in and snapped
at the girl's skirt. She sprang back, with a cry: "Help! Quick, Mr.
Winthrope! They're breaking through!"
Winthrope made no response. She stooped, and found him lying inert where
he had fallen. She had only herself to depend upon. A screen of sharp
sticks which she had made for the entrance was leaning against the inner
wall, within easy reach. To grasp it and thrust it against the other
framework was the work of an instant.
Still she trembled, for the eager beasts had ripped the thatch from the
canopy, and their inthrust jaws made short work of the few leaves on her
screen. Unaware that even a lion or a tiger is quickly discouraged by
the knife-like splinters of broken bamboo, she expected every moment that
the jackals would bite their way through her frail barrier.
She remembered the stakes given her by Winthrope, hidden under the leaves
and grass of her bed. She groped her way across the hollow, and uncovered
one of the stakes. In her haste she cut her hand on its razor-like edge.
All unheeding, she sprang back towards the entrance. She was none too
soon. One of the smaller jackals had forced its head and one leg between
the bars, and was struggling to enlarge the opening.
Fearful that the whole pack was about to burst in upon her, the girl
grasped the bamboo stake in both hands, and began stabbing and lunging
at the beast with all her strength. The jackal squirmed and snarled and
snapped viciously. But the girl was now frantic. She pressed nearer,
and though the white teeth grazed her wrist, she drove home a thrust
that changed the beast's snarls into a howl of pain. Before she could
strike again, it had struggled back out of the hole, beyond reach.
Tense and panting with excitement, she leaned forward, ready to stab at
the next beast. None appeared, and presently she became aware that the
pack had been daunted by the experience of their unlucky fellow. Their
snarls and yells had subsided to whines, which seemed to be coming from
a greater distance. Still she waited, with the bamboo stake upraised
ready to strike, every nerve and muscle of her body tense with the strain.
So great was the stress of her fear and excitement that she had not
heeded the first gray lessening of the night. But now the glorious
tropical dawn came streaming out of the east in all its red effulgence.
Above and through the bamboo barrier glowed a light such as might have
come from a great fire on the cliff top. Still tense and immovable, the
girl stared out up the cleft. There was not a jackal in sight. She
leaned forward and peered around, unable to believe such good fortune.
But the night prowlers had slunk off in the first gray dawn.
The girl drew in a deep, shuddering sigh, and sank back. Her hand struck
against Winthrope's foot. She turned about quickly and looked at him. He
was lying upon his face. She hastened to turn him upon his side, and
to feel his forehead. It was cool and moist. He was fast asleep and
drenched with sweat. The great shock of his pain and fear and excitement
had broken his fever.
With the relief and joy of this discovery, the girl completely relaxed.
Not observing Winthrope's wounds, which had bled little, she sought
to force a way out through the entrance. It was by no means an easy task
to free the wedged framework, and when, after much pulling and pushing,
she at last tore the mass loose, she found herself perspiring no less
freely than Winthrope.
She was far too preoccupied, however, to consider what this might mean.
Her first thought was of the fire. She ran to her rude stone fireplace
and raked over the ashes. They were still warm, but there was not a live
ember among them. Yet she realized that Winthrope must have hot food
when he wakened, and Blake had carried with him the magnifying glass.
For a little she stood hesitating. But the defeat
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