while they said nothing, but stood staring solemnly at each other.

It was Bomba who first broke the silence, and in the deep stillness of
the shadow-filled jungle his voice sounded hollow in his own ears.

“The mad monkey! If he is alone, all will be well. But if there are
others----”

“There are others,” interrupted Ashati. “One mad monkey needs but bite
another, and that one too will become mad. It is in that way the evil
spirits get possession of a flock of monkeys and set loose a thousand
demons upon the jungle.”

“And the bite of one sets loose an evil spirit within ourselves, and we
become even as the mad monkeys,” said Neram, his teeth chattering.

Bomba knew that he spoke truly. A kind of hydrophobia would sometimes
be communicated by a snake-bitten monkey to its mates, and by them to
any human being that came within their reach while the epidemic was
raging. He had known of whole flocks of monkeys having been decimated
before the terrible disease had run its course. And at such times there
was no inhabitant of the jungle to be so much feared as a mad monkey.

“We cannot stay here,” said Bomba, looking about him. “We must go on.
Perhaps we shall find shelter, a cave or an abandoned hut of a caboclo,
where we can spend the night and leave this terrible place with the
daylight.”

“Yes, we must go on,” agreed Ashati, and Neram nodded his head in
agreement. “To stay here would be to bring that hurt monkey back for
his revenge.”

“With good fortune we may escape the notice of others of the flock,
since it is night and they may sleep,” suggested Neram.

“Then we must make no more noise than the foot of the jaguar,” warned
Bomba, and, turning, he sped silently and swiftly from the place,
followed closely by his companions.

They had proceeded only a short distance when a horrible chattering
overhead caused them to look up, and in the branches of a tree they saw
two big apes gibbering and grinning at them, with the same awful look
in their eyes that had marked the first one they had encountered.

As the little party moved swiftly on, a large castanha nut struck
Ashati on the shoulder with such force that he was felled to the ground.

Bomba lifted him to his feet and hurried him onward just as a
bombardment of the heavy missiles came pelting down. A hideous wailing
and a sharp, crackling sound like a crazy laugh followed the three
fugitives as they raced onward.

By this time, superstitious terror had taken complete possession of
Ashati and Neram, and Bomba himself could feel the hair rising on his
head. The swift-falling darkness, the knowledge that danger was all
about them, that insane enemies were skulking perhaps behind a tree,
leering at them from branches overhead, crouching in ambush behind a
concealing bush or shrub, at any moment to reach out a hairy arm--all
these things combined to fill them with terror.

Their flight was unreasoning. They plunged through thorn bushes that
tore at their flesh, and felt no pain. They stumbled and fell into
black ooze that might hold writhing snakes, and scarcely thought of
it. To put distance between themselves and this nightmare became their
only aim.

Once a terrible figure dropped upon the neck of Ashati from the
branches above. The native gave a dreadful shriek and threw himself
upon his face.

The mad beast catapulted from the shoulders of Ashati and fell at the
feet of Bomba. It was the work of a moment for the lad to sink his
machete to the handle into the hairy body. The thing crouched as though
to spring, then gave a ghastly screech and sprawled upon the ground.

“He is dead?” asked Neram, coming forward, unbelieving.

At the words, the prostrate Ashati raised himself on hands and knees
and crawled over to where the lifeless brute was lying.

“Dead!” he gasped, and dragging himself to his feet stared hard at
Bomba.

For it was a superstition among the natives that a mad creature was
possessed of an evil spirit that made it immune to death. The fact then
that Bomba had killed one of the mad monkeys so easily filled them with
surprise and hope. If he had killed one, he might kill many. Their
weapons were not as powerless as they had feared.

But their relief was swiftly changed to fear by a strange, weird
rustling among the trees that swelled in volume as they listened, as
though a great storm had entered the jungle and was sweeping all
before it. But there was no storm nor sign of one.

“The mad monkeys!” whispered Bomba. “They have told each other that we
are here. They know that we are few and they are many. Come!”

If their flight had betrayed panic earlier, it was nothing to the fear
that now gave wings to their feet. They might hold their own against a
few. They could not face an army, such as, from the sounds, now seemed
to be in pursuit of them.

But even then Bomba had no hate against his pursuers, such as he felt
toward jaguars and snakes. He pitied them as the suffering victims of a
terrible disorder. None the less, he knew that they were bent on taking
his life and that if it came to a combat it was a case of kill or be
killed.

There was but one hope, and that a slender one; the hope that they
might find some cave or other shelter in which they could barricade
themselves and hold the maddened animals at bay. He knew of no such
place in that vicinity, and even if he had, it would have been
difficult to find it in the dark.

Ashati and Neram, with what breath they had, were muttering prayers to
the Spirit of the Jungle. If ever help was needed, it was needed then.

Onward they plunged through the black night of the jungle, that
terrible rustling as of a mighty wind coming closer and closer with
every moment.

As the pursuing monkeys drew closer to their prey, they began to howl
and jabber horribly. It seemed to Bomba that the whole jungle was one
hideous jangle of sound.

Neram screamed. A hairy arm had reached from a low-hanging branch,
encircling his neck. He struck at it with his knife and stumbled after
Bomba and Ashati.

They were panting, spent. In another moment that awful swarm of
maddened beasts would descend upon them.

Stumbling blindly on, Bomba felt his foot slip into a hollow at the
same time that his body struck violently against a hard substance.

He stretched out his hands and felt rather than saw in the darkness
that he had come to the entrance of a cave.

“Quick!” he gasped, stepping back and nearly falling over the cowering
form of Neram. “Into the cave! Quick!”

CHAPTER XV

LYING IN AMBUSH

The two slaves seemed not to hear Bomba.

Perhaps they were half dead from fright, or perhaps they thought that
the malady that had attacked the monkeys had disordered Bomba’s mind as
well.

Despite his command, they continued to crouch stupidly close to the
ground, striving to keep out of reach of the clutching hands that swung
from the branches overhead.

One great ape dropped to the ground and came swiftly toward them on all
fours, uttering howl after howl, so wild and eerie that it froze the
blood in the veins of the adventurers.

Finding that the slaves were too terrified to heed his orders, Bomba
seized Neram, who was nearer to him, and flung him bodily through the
opening of the cave. He took Ashati by the arm and dragged him forward,
shouting:

“The cave! The cave! Do you hear what I say? Get inside quick, and I
will follow.”

From inside the cave Neram reached out a hand and drew Ashati within
the sheltering blackness.

As Bomba was about to follow, the monkeys, following the leadership of
the great ape that had begun the actual attack, dropped to the ground
and swarmed toward Bomba.

The boy leaped for the gaping mouth of the cave just as the first of
the monkeys grazed his arm with its paw.

Neram and Ashati dragged him further into the depths of the cavern,
while, with a shriek of rage, the baffled monkey, seeking to follow,
dashed instead into the rock surface at the side.

Bomba stubbed his foot, bruising it as he fell forward into the cave.
He stooped down to examine the object and found that it was a great
rock.

“Come, help me!” he cried to the two slaves, who were fully awake now
to the fact that there was hope of escape.

They stooped to aid him, and as the monkeys recovered from their
surprise at the sudden disappearance of their enemies and began to
search out the entrance to the cave, those within rolled the great
stone to the entrance, fairly blocking it.

While they held that stone in place they were safe.

Bomba and his companions sank down on the ground, gasping for breath,
and pressed their weight against the rock.

The weird howling of the enraged monkeys outside their shelter made
them tremble even now, lest their cunning foes should find some other
entrance to the cave and come pouring in to indulge in massacre.

But as time passed and they remained unmolested in their retreat, while
the awful howling of the monkeys died down to a mere jumble of sound,
they began to take courage and hope that all would still be well with
them.

Bomba had feared at first that the cave might be the lair of some wild
beast of the jungle.

But the fact that the stone was so near the mouth of the cave and was
evidently intended to block up the entrance seemed to argue human
occupation. Some native, perhaps, had become an outlaw from his tribe
and had chosen the cave as his home.

When it became certain that the monkeys had tired of their quest and
were straggling off again into the jungle, Bomba ventured to make a
cautious tour of the cave to make sure that his guess had been correct.

Even then he was afraid that at any moment his fingers might touch
something warm and alive but not human.

However, the cave was a small one, and he soon found, to his great
relief, that, save for Ashati, Neram and himself, it was unoccupied.

Tired beyond words, but jubilant at their escape, Bomba returned to the
two, who still squatted on the ground close to the stone that guarded
the entrance to the cave.

Ashati was inclined to indulge in prophecy.

“The Spirit of the Jungle is good,” he stated, as Bomba threw himself
down beside them. “Twice it has saved the life of Bomba. The captives
of the wicked Nascanora and his half-brother Tocarora will be spared.
Bomba will live to seek out Sobrinini, and find from her the secret
that the poor old white man cannot tell. It is for that that the Spirit
of the Jungle has twice saved the life of Bomba.”

“Ahma,” said Neram, which meant “so be it,” as he bowed his head
reverently.

It was not long before all three were asleep, stretched on the ground
against the great rock, so that the slightest push on it would be
certain to rouse them.

But they were undisturbed all through the long hours of the night, and
at dawn awoke, refreshed and ravenous for the great chunks of roasted
jaguar meat they had prepared the day before.

They ate quickly, listening meanwhile for any sounds from the jungle
which might warn them of a further attack on the part of the mad
monkeys.

But, aside from the ordinary jungle noises, everything was as quiet as
they could wish. Unless they were still slyly watched by their enemies,
their escape from the cave should be a matter of no great difficulty.

Nevertheless, both Neram and Ashati were reluctant to leave the
friendly shelter of the cave, and urged that Bomba rest there another
day and night until all danger should be gone.

But Bomba would not listen to this.

“You stay,” he said. “But Bomba must go. If, as you say, it was the
Spirit of the Jungle that twice saved his life yesterday, the Spirit
might be angry if Bomba were afraid and perhaps the next time would not
save him from the hairy arm of the great ape or the sharp claws of the
jaguar. No, Bomba must go.”

So, seeing that he was in earnest and thinking that if the lad were
under the protection of the Spirit of the Jungle they would be also,
Neram and Ashati said nothing more and helped Bomba roll the great
stone from the entrance to the cave.

“Where you go we will go,” said Ashati gently, as the welcome sunlight
streamed in. “Though you will not have us for your slaves, you are our
master. Let Bomba start and we will follow.”

Making no sound, they went swiftly through the jungle and did not pause
or stop to rest until they had put a great distance between them and
the scene of the fantastic nightmare adventure of the evening before.

When the sun was high above their heads and all the jungle seemed to
fry and crackle beneath the heat of it, Bomba and his companions sat
down to eat the last of the jaguar meat and some berries and nuts they
had gathered by the way. Farther back they had found a stream of clear,
cool water, where they had slaked their thirst.

They resumed their route and had not gone far before they heard the
sound of rushing waters. The sound lent wings to Bomba’s feet, and the
faithful slaves kept pace with him, no matter how fast he went.

They came out soon on the banks of a river. The noise of the foaming
waters had been growing louder and louder until now it smote upon their
ears like thunder. A torrent of black water dashed along the river bed
and leaped angrily against the rocks that studded its course, flinging
a shower of spray upon Bomba and his companions where they stood at the
edge of the fringe of trees that bordered the river.

“The River of Death!” muttered Ashati in hushed tones. “It is so that
our people call it.”

“And it is well named,” said Neram, making a cabalistic sign as though
to ward off evil.

“Beyond the River of Death,” said Bomba in a voice of impatience,
“though so far away that the eye cannot see it, is the Giant Cataract.
Come, let us be quick. Nascanora and his braves cannot be far away.”

They started again, following the course of the stream. Suddenly Neram
paused with his head to one side as though he were listening.

“Hark!” he said, when Bomba would have questioned him. “Someone comes.”

As soon as the words had fallen from his lips, Bomba threw himself upon
the ground and put his ear to it.

Instantly he was on his feet again, drawing Ashati and Neram within
the shelter of the trees, which at that point were growing in great
profusion.

“We will watch as silently as the jaguar watches for his prey,” he
hissed. “Let no one move or make a sound.”

Hidden by the rank marsh grass that formed a perfect covert, the three
lay motionless, not a breath betraying their hiding place.

For what seemed a long time to the intent watchers, no one appeared in
sight. For all that could be seen, the jungle was free from all human
presence and given over to its animal inhabitants.

Unseen himself from the bank of the river, only a few yards away, Bomba
could yet have a perfect view of any living thing that might pass by.
Absolutely still, as motionless as though he were an image of stone,
his eyes alone moved to show that he lived and breathed.

The faint sound of footsteps that they had heard gradually became more
distinct, and at last a solitary traveler came into view. The man was
an Indian, but of a tribe with which Bomba was not familiar. He was
journeying swiftly when those concealed in the long grass caught their
first glimpse of him, glancing again and again over his shoulder as
though he feared pursuit.

Motioning to Neram and Ashati to remain silently where they were, Bomba
wriggled through the underbrush as sinuously as a snake. Not a motion
of the grass betrayed his presence.

Then, without a sound, as though he had risen from the heart of
the earth, Bomba leaped to his feet directly in the path of the
unsuspecting native.

The fellow started back and opened his mouth to yell, but before a
sound could issue from it Bomba had clapped one lean, brown hand over
his mouth and with the other had thrown him prone on the ground.

Kneeling on the chest of his captive, who was too paralyzed by the
suddenness of the attack to make more than a feeble resistance, Bomba
called softly to Ashati and Neram. As though, like Aladdin, he had
conjured them by the rubbing of a lamp, they were instantly at his side.

At their unexpected appearance, the feeble resistance of the native
ceased altogether. He seemed to be stupefied with terror, and stared
from one to the other of his captors with red and watery eyes that
begged for mercy.

“We will not hurt you,” said Bomba, taking his hand from his prisoner’s
mouth while at the same time he motioned Neram and Ashati to grasp the
fellow, should he seek to break away. “Only tell us what you know and
you shall go free. But lie to us,” he added, with a significant motion
toward his machete, “and you die!”

CHAPTER XVI

THE ISLAND OF SNAKES

The native writhed and twisted, the eyes bloodshot with terror at the
threat.

Ashati and Neram came a step nearer with menace in their eyes, and the
captive subsided again, gasping and groaning beneath the pressure of
Bomba’s knee upon his chest.

“Do not kill me! Only do not kill me!” he jabbered. “I will answer you!
You have only to ask.”

“Then listen to me, and listen well.” The fierce, impatient note was
in Bomba’s voice again. “Nascanora, the great chief, the chief with a
black heart, is the man I want to find. Give me news of him and you
shall go free.”

A gleam of hope came into the prisoner’s eyes.

“Yes, yes, I will tell. I will tell you anything I know. But you must
not let Nascanora know that I have told, or he will cut my heart and
fry it over a fire.”

“Nascanora shall not know,” broke in Bomba, as he lightened somewhat
his pressure on the man’s chest and bored him through and through with
his eyes as though to wrench the truth from him. “But if you speak with
a forked tongue your place will be with the dead.”

“I will make straight talk,” asseverated the native. “I do not want to
die.”

“Where is Nascanora? Quick!” demanded Bomba.

“In two days’ time,” replied the trembling native, “he will pass this
spot on the other side of the river.”

“I thought he had already passed,” said Bomba.

“He has,” returned the native. “But he turned back to burn another
village and take some more captives. He will move slowly, for he has
other enemies that he wants to capture near Snake Island, where lives
the old witch, Sobrinini----”

Bomba cried out in astonishment and quick hope.

“You know Sobrinini?” he asked eagerly.

The native marked his change of tone, and seemed encouraged by it. His
terror abated, and he spoke so swiftly that the words stumbled over
each other and Bomba could scarcely make out what he said.

“I know of Sobrinini. Who does not know of her who lives near the Giant
Cataract?” he cried. “But I do not go near her island, for it is full
of snakes and Sobrinini is a woman of evil whose frown means death.”

“Where is this island?” Bomba asked in a fever of eagerness.

“It is called Snake Island. But to go there is to die.”

The native shivered with a superstitious terror as he spoke the words.

Bomba glanced at Ashati and Neram, who had been listening with absorbed
interest to the story of the native and on whose faces was reflected
the same look of fright.

Bomba released his hold upon the prisoner and arose to his feet.

“There are two things I must know,” he said.

“Command, and you shall be obeyed,” returned the native humbly.

“Was there a white man among Nascanora’s captives?”

“I cannot say. He had many captives and he will return as I have said.
That is all that the jungle has told me.”

“How do you go to this island where the witch woman, Sobrinini, lives
with her snakes?” asked Bomba, feeling that the native had spoken the
truth.

The native looked at him with curiosity dawning in his reddened eyes.

“You will not go there?” he cried in horror. “I tell you it would be
better for you to go to the giant anaconda and let him wind his coils
about your body than to seek out Sobrinini on her island that lies
under the curse of the gods. I tell you again that to go there is to
die.”

“That is for me to say,” replied Bomba. “I do not fear Sobrinini. I do
not fear her snakes. I have come a far way to see her and I will see
her. Tell me what I want to know. Bomba does not like to ask a thing
twice.”

In response to this imperative demand, the native jabbered out
directions, telling Bomba the course he must take to reach Snake Island
if he did not wish to be swept to destruction by the rapids of the
River of Death.

When Bomba had extracted all the information he could, he motioned the
native to rise to his feet.

“Listen!” he said. “If I were Nascanora I would kill you, so as to be
sure that your tongue would be still. But Bomba’s heart is not black
like that of the chief of the headhunters. I am going to let you go
free. But if you tell anyone that you have seen me you will find that
Bomba’s knife is sharp and his vengeance is swift. Go now and remember
what I say.”

After the man had disappeared, Bomba wasted little time in discussing
the matter with his companions. For if he were to accomplish all he
hoped to before Nascanora should pass that way, he would have to work
hard and fast.

He was in a ferment of eagerness to visit Sobrinini and wrest from the
strange woman the secret of his birth. He was sure she knew. Jojasta
had said she could tell him. Casson’s queer actions when the name of
Sobrinini had been mentioned and his statement that “Nini would know”
had further confirmed his conviction.

As for the terrors that, according to the native, barred access to her,
he cared not at all. He was used to meeting and overcoming danger. He
would face anything rather than once more be balked in learning what to
him was almost as much as life itself.

With the aid of Neram and Ashati, he cut down one of the smaller trees
near the river bank and began the work of hollowing out a portion of
the trunk in the form of a small canoe.

It was hard work and slow, even with the aid of his companions, who
were skilled in that kind of work, and when the evening shadows fell
along the banks of the River of Death the canoe was only half done.
Impatient as he was, Bomba was forced to wait till morning for the
completion of the work.

At the break of dawn Bomba was at work again. Ashati helped him, while
Neram went off in search of jaboty eggs so that they could conserve
their remaining supply of meat.

Some time later he returned, triumphantly displaying six large eggs.

“There were more there, but I could not carry them,” he said, as he
built a fire with which to prepare breakfast. “I saw a tapir, too, but
could not kill him because I had gone out without my bow and arrows.”

“Foolish one to hunt without weapons,” reproved Ashati, looking up for
a moment from his work. “Ashati would know better.”

“The next time Ashati shall do the hunting,” returned Neram, and went
on stolidly with his preparations.

By the time the sun was high in the heavens the crude canoe was
finished. A paddle was then fashioned from a sapling, that for all its
slenderness was strong enough to breast the current of even that raging
river.

Their temporary captive had explained to Bomba that he must launch his
boat at some little distance up the river, where the current was not
so strong. From there he could let himself go with the rushing waters
until he came to a place where the waters widened out and were not so
tumultuous.

When he reached this portion of the stream, the native had said, he
would see at a distance a long island, the shape of a finger, extending
into the river. After he had reached and passed this on the eastern
side, he would find himself in a place more easily navigable for his
small craft.

Up this calmer stretch of water Bomba had been directed to paddle until
he should come in sight of Snake Island, half hidden behind a jutting
point of the mainland.

Bomba had taken it for granted that Ashati and Neram would accompany
him. There was room for the three of them, and there would be less
danger of capsizing if the canoe were well weighted down.

But though they helped him willingly to carry the canoe to the portion
of the river where it would be safe to launch it, they seemed so
terrified when Bomba spoke of his eagerness to reach Snake Island that
the lad stared at them with amazement.

“You are afraid to go?” he asked.

Poor Ashati and Neram flinched before his accusing gaze and hung down
their heads. For a long moment there was silence, and then Ashati
answered:

“This Sobrinini is a witch and her island is full of snakes. If she is
a witch, she can make the snakes do her bidding. Did not the caboclo
say that to go there was to die?”

Bomba pondered for a while, staring at his companions. He had not their
superstition, but he could put himself in their places and understand
their feelings.

“You have not the reason to seek out Sobrinini that I have,” he
conceded. “Perhaps that is what makes me blind to dangers that you see.
Bomba will go alone. You stay here till I get back.”

At this they cast themselves at his feet, crying out that they would go
with him in spite of their dread of Sobrinini and her island of snakes.

But Bomba would not accept such a sacrifice on their part, and
persisted in setting off alone.

They dropped the canoe into the water, and almost before Bomba had time
to get into it the current caught the frail bark and sent it dancing
out upon the swirling waters like a feather caught in the wind.

The jungle boy needed all his skill to keep the tossing craft on an
even keel and set a straight course down the river. When he could at
last look back, he could see Neram and Ashati standing on the bank like
bronzed statues, looking after him. He knew that in their hearts they
never expected to see him again.

On he went down the river, the canoe caught now by one current, now by
another, sometimes dipping to one side at so sharp an angle that it
seemed it must capsize, then righting itself and dancing on again over
the frothing black water--a frail barrier between Bomba and destruction.

Once the canoe was caught in the iron grip of a cross-current and
rushed at a furious speed toward the rocks that at that point lined the
shore.

Bomba had need of all his strength. Putting all his force upon the
paddle, he grazed the murderous rocks by the fraction of an inch, and
slid lightly, gently into a stretch of calmer water.

The most dangerous part of his water journey was now over. All he had
to do now was to avoid the rocks that at places pushed their heads
above the water and the snags formed by parts of the trunks of trees
that had grown on what was dry ground before the stream had extended
its borders and swallowed them up.

But there were other “snags” too--living snags! The rough, gnarled
bodies of great alligators that swam or floated lazily about, their
backs just showing above the surface. Many were wholly or half asleep,
others turned red and evil eyes on the solitary boatman as he sped
by. Bomba, remembering his last experience with the ferocious brutes,
shuddered to think of what would happen to him if by some evil chance
his canoe should be overturned.

He found the island that was shaped like a finger, and worked his
craft about the further end of it, heading upstream as the native had
directed.

This was more tedious work than his progress downstream had been, but
far less perilous. Bomba paddled with a will, his heart beating high
with hope as he thought that every stroke was bringing him nearer to
Sobrinini and the secret whose answer he was so eager to know.

If he shared to some extent the fears that had taken such strong
possession of Ashati and Neram in regard to Sobrinini and her island
of snakes, his eagerness to learn from the lips of the old witch woman
those facts about his parentage that had been so long denied him drove
all other feelings from his mind.

But as time passed and still each bend of the river failed to disclose
any island answering to the description given by the native, Bomba
became anxious and quickened the long, sweeping strokes of his paddle.

Could the native have deceived him? Was the fellow chuckling at that
very moment at the way he had deceived the white boy who had waylaid
him?

Bomba hardly thought so. The man had spoken under the fear of death,
if he spoke falsely. He knew how indefinite was the native idea of
distance. He had heard Casson say in the old days that when a caboclo
said a place was “not far” he might mean just beyond a bend of the road
or twenty miles away.

Bomba’s first uneasiness came with the lengthening of the evening
shadows. Even if the native had not misled him and his course was the
true one, Bomba did not relish the idea of approaching the island in
the dark, or even at early dusk.

But even as these thoughts troubled his mind and the shadows grew
deeper, he rounded another bend of the river and saw before him the
object of his search. He could not be mistaken. The position and shape
of the island were exactly as the native had described them.

As Bomba, with quickened pulse, drove his canoe among the heavy rushes
that half concealed the land from anyone upon the river, the sound of
singing came to him.

It was not one of the tribal songs of natives with which he was
familiar.

It was singing such as he had never heard before, and the voice of the
singer was so thin and eerie and unearthly in that solitary spot that
Bomba felt the hair rise on his scalp.

“Sobrinini!” muttered the lad, and with a trembling hand parted the
bushes from before his eyes.

CHAPTER XVII

AMID WRITHING SERPENTS

The sight that met Bomba’s eyes was horrible beyond anything he had
ever seen or imagined.

At the extreme end of the island, in mud that oozed about her ankles,
an old withered crone was performing a weird dance, singing to herself
as she did so in a language that was strange to Bomba.

But that was not the part of the performance that held Bomba
spellbound, horror-stricken.

It was the snakes, the ropes of slimy, hideous reptiles that the old
woman wound about her arms, her waist, her neck, even her face, as she
danced faster and ever faster to the strains of her weird, high-pitched
song.

It was then that fear entered into Bomba, a fear such as had never
been felt by him when he battled with the wild beasts of the jungle.
Then he had fought with things of flesh and blood, with something he
could understand. But what he saw now seemed to be tinctured by the
supernatural. His flesh crawled. The scene was revolting and horrible
beyond description.

This must be Sobrinini, this hag that played with and fondled and
petted these hissing reptiles that wound their coils about her body.
She must be a witch, as the native had claimed. How otherwise could she
do a thing like this and remain unharmed?

And if she was a witch--and to Bomba’s primitive, half-taught mind this
did not seem at all impossible--she might have it within her power to
lay a spell upon him, if she wished. Perhaps she might turn him into
one of those very snakes that hissed and writhed about her.

At the thought, Bomba was tempted to flee from the spot. But something
in him, stronger even than his fear, drew him resistlessly toward that
weird figure on the river bank.

He worked the canoe in as far toward the island as he dared and wedged
it tightly among the rushes, trusting that they would hold it for him
until he returned.

He found that the water was shallow, and silently slipped into it
and waded toward the bank. Dread of the piranhas, a dangerous,
sharp-toothed fish, such as infest all the waters of the jungle,
hurried Bomba’s steps so that he was not as cautious in his approach to
Sobrinini as he would otherwise have been.

Although he made for the shore at some distance from the old woman, so
that he might choose his own time for drawing near her after she had
finished with the demon-like dance, he slipped, when he tried for a
footing in the slimy ooze of the river bank, and came down with a heavy
splash.

The sound startled Sobrinini. The weird song died on her withered lips
and she stood staring. The tropic night had fallen now, but a full moon
had risen, and by the light of it Bomba could be seen as he got to his
feet and gained the bank.

At sight of him, a shrill yell pealed from the lips of the old woman,
which brought dark figures running to her from all directions. Bomba
saw one rise up in front of him as though conjured from the earth by
magic. He turned to avoid the outstretched arms of this apparition,
did not see the hole that yawned at his feet, and fell into a nest of
writhing snakes.

He was so paralyzed with horror that he could not move. Perhaps it was
to that that he owed his life. For as the snakes, most of which had
been dozing in the slimy ooze at the bottom of the pit, recovered from
their surprise and coiled to attack, Sobrinini pushed through the crowd
at the edge of the hole and began to sing.

It was a lilting, rhythmic tune, and at the first notes of it the
hideous reptiles surrounding Bomba began to sway to the sound and one
after another slipped over the edge of the pit and slithered away into
the darkness.

Bomba climbed out, with the gray mud plastered over him. Still shaken
at the narrowness of his escape from a terrible death, the lad drew
himself up beside Sobrinini.

The ring of natives, male and female, closed in upon Bomba and the old
witch woman as the sound died on the lips of Sobrinini. Several of the
group carried flaring torches, and by this flickering light the scene
seemed as unreal and fantastic as a dream.

As Sobrinini saw Bomba before her, she turned upon him with a look so
fierce and malignant that the lad involuntarily drew away from her.

“You scared my snakes!” she cried accusingly. “For that you should be
burned by fire and flung into the river for the alligators to feast
on your flesh. It was for their sakes, not yours, that I saved your
life, wicked one. My snakes must not be frightened, my little pets--ha,
ha, ha!” and she went off into such a fit of horrible merriment that
Bomba’s heart froze within him.

If at that moment he could have reached his canoe by any means and left
that fearful place behind him forever, he might have yielded to the
temptation.

But it was too late now. The ring of natives surrounded him, and even
if he succeeded by a bold dash in forcing his way through them, there
was little chance of escape. They would reach him and drag him back
before he could get the canoe clear of the bushes and head for the open
stream.

The impulse to flee lasted but a moment. The next, Bomba pulled himself
together and was his cool, courageous self once more.

Sobrinini had worked herself into a frenzy of fury. She danced about
Bomba in a hideous way, shaking her shriveled fists in the air and
mouthing horribly.

Now she came close to the lad and pushed her wrinkled face in his.
She raised an arm above her head as though to strike him. Bomba stood
unflinching.

She paused suddenly, arrested apparently by something she saw in his
face.

“Ah!” she cried. “Bring the torches nearer.”

The command rang out in a strikingly clear voice and instantly there
was a stir among the natives. Evidently she was accustomed to being
obeyed without question.

One great sullen fellow came forward and thrust his flaring torch
almost in Bomba’s face.

Sobrinini peered closely at the lad for a moment, and then shrank back
with a piercing scream.

“You!” she cried, again coming close and staring at him wildly. “How
came you here? Are you a ghost, Bartow?”

Into Bomba’s heart came a swift feeling of amazement.

What was the meaning of this? Like an echo of the words came the memory
of Jojasta’s cry as Bomba had bent above him when he was pinned beneath
the fallen column. Jojasta had called him Bartow and thought he was a
ghost.

He took a step toward Sobrinini, who was still staring at him fearfully.

“What mean you?” he cried.

Seeing the terror into which their priestess had been thrown, a strange
wild singing rose from the native women as they wove in and out in
fantastic mazes, evidently designed to ward off the evil portent.

The bony fingers of Sobrinini closed on Bomba’s arm. Her voice was
shrill and urgent, as she said in his ear:

“Come with me, Bartow. Ghost or not, come with Sobrinini.”

As in a nightmare, his mind in a tumult of conflicting emotions, Bomba
allowed himself to be led away.

They passed through dank, long grass that sprang from the marshy
ground, and in some places grew as high as Bomba’s head. Once he felt
the slimy body of a snake beneath his foot and leaped aside, only to
feel his foot brush another.

“Be not afraid of the snakes. They are my pets and will not harm anyone
that is with Sobrinini,” crooned the old crone at his side.

She knew her way well, for she moved along the winding trail without
ever looking down, keeping her fascinated gaze on Bomba’s face.

Twice Bomba started to ask her what she meant by calling him Bartow and
a ghost, but twice he was halted by a bony, shriveled finger on his
lips and a croaking cry:

“Hush! Speak not, Bartow, or you will break the spell and shatter it
into a thousand tinkling fragments.”

She went on, muttering to herself, until at last they came to a large
wooden building. A flickering light from its gaping windows threw
grotesque shadows upon the ground.

Bomba felt a dread of entering the place. Like the wild things of the
jungle, he felt safer in the open. But Sobrinini’s hand was upon his
arm, and she dragged him through the doorway. Her manner grew ever more
feverish and wild. She seemed possessed by a terrible excitement. Bomba
did not venture to dispute her will.

He found himself in a strange place, the like of which he had never
seen before. Tearing his glance from the withered mask that was the
face of Sobrinini, he looked about him.

Torches flickered and flared in crude receptacles fastened to the walls
and lighted up the bare and desolate room.

Rows of crude chairs stood upon the uneven wooden floor, and above
these, halfway to the patched and leaking roof, a tiny balcony had been
constructed. At either end of this was a small compartment with rounded
front, meant to represent an opera box, though this of course Bomba
could not know.

At the extreme front of the big room was a raised platform, meant to
serve as a stage of this dismal imitation of an opera house.

As Bomba gazed about him, surprised and bewildered, Sobrinini left his
side, and with a horrid simulation of youth skipped to the platform.

Then she turned and made him a low bow, a hideous smirk cracking the
wrinkles of her withered face.

“Come closer, Bartow. Come closer, dear Bartow! Do!” she urged, in a
voice at first soft and coaxing, but that ended in a shrill cackle. “I
will give you a good seat, Bartow--the best seat in the house--in the
first row center. You can hear me better there than from a box. Come!”
she cried, as he hesitated, her simpering giving place to a terrible
frown. “Why do you stand there blinking at me like a fool? Do not
rouse my wrath, Bartow! The wrath of Sobrinini is a terrible thing, as
no one should know better than you.”

Bomba came forward quickly, alarmed by the swift change in the old
crone’s manner. But she simpered and smirked again when he approached,
and, skipping lightly from the platform, forced him with a playfulness
that Bomba found scarcely less terrifying than her wrath into one of
the crazy chairs close to the stage.

“Now I will sing to you!” she cried, and sprang up again upon the
platform.

Bomba watched with a strange fascination while the old woman danced and
sang in a strange language unknown to him. The lilting songs, even when
sung by that cracked and ruined voice, struck a responsive chord in
the boy and filled him with emotions that he could neither analyze nor
understand.

He did not know that that voice, when in its prime, had thrilled great
audiences that included emperors and kings and had given the singer a
reputation as wide as the civilized world.

Suddenly Sobrinini paused, and fixing Bomba with a strange intent gaze,
sang in a voice that had magically lost most of its raucous quality and
for the moment had become the faint, sad echo of something that had
been supremely beautiful--sang a tender, haunting melody that touched
some almost forgotten memory in Bomba’s heart and filled him with an
exquisite pain.

Somewhere, long since, he had heard that melody! But when and where?

Slowly the music drew him step by step toward that fantastic figure on
the stage.

“Tell me!” he cried imploringly. “Tell me, Sobrinini, was that my
mother’s song?”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

For an instant the fierce, bright eyes of the old hag softened. Her
bony fingers hovered over Bomba’s hair, as though they would have
stroked it.

Then she threw back her head and laughed, a harsh, cackling laugh that
caused Bomba to wince and shrink back as from the sharp thrust of a
knife.

“Eh, Bartow, you would have a joke with Sobrinini, my fine one,”
croaked the old crone, wagging her finger in Bomba’s face and leering
at him in a way she meant to be facetious. “No, no, Bartow--or Bartow’s
ghost--that was not your mother’s song, but the song of your wife----”

“My wife!” the words broke from Bomba impetuously. “What mean you,
Sobrinini?”

“Ah, you would still have your joke with Sobrinini, eh?” The old woman
leaned forward again and tapped him on the arm with her skinny finger.
“But you cannot forget that song, Bartow, the song your wife sang after
Bonny was born.”

But when Bomba would have questioned her further, she pushed him away
from her and began to sing again.

“La la la! la la la!” she sang.

It was the gay and vibrant melody that poor Casson had tried to sing.

Bomba could do nothing but stand in bewildered silence and watch the
old woman as she danced and sang, whirling about the poor stage with a
nimbleness that was amazing in one of her age.

Confusedly, he tried to think of the things she had said to him, but
beneath the wild spell of that performance he could reason nothing out,
and could only stare dazedly at this wreck of what had once been a
great genius.

What would happen to him, Bomba wondered, when the woman tired of
dancing and perhaps found out that he was not Bartow or Bartow’s ghost
as she thought him then, but only Bomba, a boy of the jungle.

With one last twirl and a deep bow to an imaginary audience, Sobrinini
brought her weird performance to an end. She grinned toothlessly at the
staring boy, and skipped lightly to the edge of the platform.

“Ha, Bartow, like you Sobrinini in the dance that charmed all Paris?”
she chirped, patting Bomba’s shoulder coquettishly. “Sobrinini has not
lost her art. How say you, Bartow?”

Bomba felt that he must keep her in good humor with him if he were to
gain that information about himself for which he had risked so much. He
had already learned something--or guessed something. Perhaps he could
learn more.

“I like your dance,” he told her gravely. “But I like best the song
that Bartow’s wife sang when--when----”

“When Bonny was born?” prompted the old woman, and without waiting for
a reply began to hum again that tender melody that had found its way to
the depths of Bomba’s heart.

It thrilled the boy again more strangely than before. When the song was
done, emotion conquered Bomba’s caution, and he flung out his hands to
Sobrinini, begging her to tell him what she knew about Bartow, about
Bartow’s wife, about the child that she had called Bonny.

But Sobrinini drew back from him, quick suspicion glinting in her eyes.

“No, no! Not now, Bartow, not now! It is another joke that you play on
Sobrinini. No, no! To-night you will sleep here and to-morrow I will
pay back your jokes with some of my own. Come! I will show you where
you are to sleep.”

So saying, and mumbling to herself as she had before, the demented
woman led him out of the strange room with the chairs and platform
that had so bewildered the boy and down a long, dark passage.

There Sobrinini paused and clapped her hands sharply.

As though by magic, a figure appeared out of the darkness before them.

“A torch!” croaked Sobrinini. “A torch to drive the shadows back into
the night. Bring a torch. Make haste.”

The figure disappeared and in a few seconds returned with a light. The
features of the slave seemed savage and sinister in the flickering
illumination.

“Give it to me! Give it to me!” cried Sobrinini irritably. “Now, slave,
begone!”

Instantly the figure vanished again, and Bomba looked about him
apprehensively. For a moment he had the fantastic notion that the
shadows all about him were filled with ghostly figures that appeared
and disappeared by magic and made no noise.

But Sobrinini stalked before him, flaring torch in hand. Bomba followed
her into a room so small that the farthest corners were made bright by
the wavering light of the torch.

As Bomba entered the place he had a strange feeling that he had seen it
before, had been in it before, had once looked about him as he was now
looking at the few articles of furniture and the pictures on the walls.

But even while he felt this so strongly that it seemed almost uncanny,
Bomba knew that it could not be so and that it was impossible he had
ever enacted this scene or anything like it before.

In all his wild life in the jungle, he had never seen anything like
that strange object in one corner of the room, raised from the floor by
posts and covered with a cloth. If Bomba had been told that the strange
object was a bed, he would have been no better informed than before. As
far as he could remember, he had never slept in anything like that in
his life.

While he was taking in the various features of the room, Sobrinini
deposited the torch in a socket on the wall and turned again to Bomba.

“Bartow,” she said, and there was that softened light in her wild eyes
that had appeared there while she was singing the tender lullaby that
Bartow’s wife had crooned to Bonny, “this is where you sleep while you
remain with Sobrinini on her island. Good-night, Bartow, or Bartow’s
ghost, and pleasant dreams!”

Then she turned and, noiselessly as a ghost or a shadow, glided from
the room.

Bomba stood where she had left him, motionless.

What was that strange feeling that made his heart swell within him
until he could not bear the pain of it, that made him reach out wildly,
beseechingly, for some vague, beautiful thing that he had never known,
or only dimly remembered?

What was it that suddenly made him feel his loneliness and desolation
more keenly than he had ever felt it in his life, as though he had been
given for a moment a glimpse of something warm and friendly and sweet,
only to have the curtain fall again and leave him in his solitude, more
utterly alone than he had ever been before?

What was it that drew him haltingly, almost fearfully, across the tiny
room to stop beneath a picture on the wall and, with his hungry eyes
upraised, stare at it intently?

Bomba could not tell. He only knew that within him there was a growing
tumult of emotions, fear, hope, doubt, and a longing so fierce that it
was pain.

Into the jungle lad’s upturned, pleading face the beautiful eyes in
the picture looked steadily and gravely down. It was a lovely face,
girlish and sweet, with soft hair waved back from a broad, low forehead
and with eyes one knew were soft and dark. The lips turned up at the
corners, half-smiling.

Bomba had never seen that beautiful pictured face before, as far as
he could remember. Then how was it that those great eyes looking into
his, those sweet lips parted as though to speak to him, touched
a chord in him that had never before resounded, and increased a
thousandfold his longing for that vague and beautiful thing that he had
never known?

She was even fairer than the woman with the golden hair. Yes, much more
fair and sweet.

Suddenly Bomba’s eyes were full of tears, and he heard himself crying
in a voice that shook:

“Mother! Mother!”

With both hands upraised toward the beautiful face, Bomba slid slowly
to the floor and lay there, his frame shaking with unaccustomed sobs.

Softly, weirdly, tenderly, there floated to the lad, as though from a
great distance, the strain of that sweet melody, the song that Bartow’s
wife had sung to Bonny.

Long after the lullaby had died away Bomba remained there, motionless,
crouched beneath the picture, one arm before his eyes.

CHAPTER XIX

A STARTLING INTERRUPTION

Worn out by the exciting adventures and fierce emotions of the day,
Bomba fell asleep. When he awoke the chill gray of early dawn was
stealing in at the window of the little room.

He was still on the floor beneath the picture. But he would not have
sought the bed in any event. It represented to him something so strange
that he would probably have been unable to sleep in it. The hard floor
on which he now lay or the earth of the jungle or his own hammock was
far more restful and sleep compelling.

At first, only half awake, Bomba had difficulty in remembering the
events of the day before and why he was in the place where he found
himself. He sprang to his feet, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him.

His eyes fell upon the picture of the beautiful lady, and memory
returned to him.

That tender, sweet melody sung by Sobrinini! Bomba had never heard it
till lately, as far as he could remember, and yet felt that he had
known it always. He wondered at the power it had exercised over him.
It had tugged at his heart as though it would pull it out by the roots.

Perhaps, he thought, this was the work of Sobrinini. Was she not a
witch? Certainly, everything he had witnessed since his arrival at
the island tended to that conclusion. The mortal fear in which her
servitors stood of her would seem to indicate the possession of some
supernatural power. Had she woven a spell about him, made him seem to
remember things that had never happened?

Yet this spell, if spell it was, had not been a malignant one. It had
made him strangely happy. The tears that had been forced from him were
tears of joy in the main, and even the melancholy that attended them
had been tender and sweet.

And this emotion had been so rare in the boy’s lonely life that it
brought a rush of gratitude toward Sobrinini. He was not afraid of the
weaver of spells and the charmer of serpents. He stood in awe of her,
but the predominant feeling was of friendship and pity for her demented
condition.

And there was something else that made a tie between them. She had
known Bartow and Bartow’s wife and Bonny. How much that name sounded
like Bomba!

In the dim light of the growing dawn, Bomba came close to the
beautiful pictured face on the wall and studied it wistfully. He could
see love in those eyes as they looked at him. He would ask Sobrinini
for that picture. Perhaps she would give it to him.

He dwelt on it, until every feature was engraved on his memory. From
that time on, he would always be able to see that face, even when his
eyes were closed.

Reluctantly at last he turned away. He had work to do, and time was
pressing. He must find out from Sobrinini what he had come to learn.
And then he must hurry on in pursuit of the captives of Nascanora. He
must be at hand when the party passed the point in the river where
Ashati and Neram were still waiting for him.

He would seek out Sobrinini at once and demand from her an answer to
the questions that tormented him. He would find out who Bartow was and
why he, Bomba, had twice been taken for Bartow or Bartow’s ghost.

With these thoughts in mind and forgetful of the fact that he had had
nothing to eat since the afternoon of the day before, Bomba strode into
the passage and found his way back to the strange room with the chairs
and platform where Sobrinini had sung to him.

The place looked changed to him now. It was not so weird nor mysterious
now that the torches had flickered out and dawn had replaced the
shadows of the night.

If Bomba had expected to find Sobrinini there, he was disappointed.
The great bare hall was deserted, and though he stopped and listened
intently, there was no sign of life anywhere.

Then suddenly there came to him from a distance the sound of singing.
First Sobrinini’s voice--he could not be mistaken in it now--then other
voices joining in a sort of weird chant that chilled the lad’s blood
yet drew him irresistibly toward the point from which the sound was
coming.

Slowly he emerged from the building and found himself enveloped in a
swirling, gray mist.

Yet the sound of the chant served him as a guide, and he went on and
on, now coming closer to the singers, then seeming to draw away from
them as the voices receded.

At last, when he was beginning to think that Sobrinini had again laid
a spell on him and that the voices were ghostly voices, to be heard by
none but himself, he saw a dark form emerge from the mist and after it
another and another.

Bomba stood still and watched. The natives were dancing, flinging their
arms about wildly and intoning their weird chant, now harsh and loud,
now soft like the sighing of the wind through the trees.

It was like a dance of ghosts, and it was not alone the chill damp of
the air that struck cold to Bomba’s heart. He felt as though he were
in some other world, and that an evil one. He had never longed for the
warmth and brightness of the jungle sun as he did at that moment.

But as the natives danced on, as tireless apparently as the ghosts that
Bomba half-thought them, the mist began to clear and the sun struck
through, causing the moisture upon the dark bodies of the dancers to
glisten.

Then, in the center of the ring, Bomba beheld Sobrinini, whirling
wildly in a mad dance, long, gray locks streaming about her, and in
each upflung hand the head of a great snake, while the bodies of the
reptiles coiled about her arms and neck.

Bomba felt a sick faintness come upon him as he watched with repulsion
the loathsome sight. He stepped back a pace or two with an impulse to
shut the scene away from him. But at that moment Sobrinini beheld him
and called to him.

She halted in her dance, and the snakes, uncoiling themselves from
about her arms and neck, as though they knew that their part in the
frenzied performance was over, slithered off quietly into the long
marsh grass and sought their lairs.

Sobrinini darted through the ring of breathless natives, and before
Bomba had guessed her purpose threw her skinny arms about the boy’s
neck.

“Bartow! My Bartow!” she cried, in a loud, cracked voice. “Come and
dance with Sobrinini. Come!”

But Bomba drew back, striving to disengage himself from the clinging
arms of the witch woman. If one of her own loathsome snakes had coiled
about his neck, he could hardly have felt a greater repulsion.

“Come! Come, dance with Sobrinini,” the woman said in a wheedling
voice, as she untwined her shriveled arms to grasp him by the hand. “I
will call back my snakes, and you shall fondle them to show you that
they will not fill your veins with poison or crush your bones when
Sobrinini is nigh. Come! Why do you draw back? What are you waiting
for, Bartow?”

“But I am not Bartow,” blurted out Bomba in his desperation to be rid
of her and learn the truth about himself. “Jojasta, the medicine man
of the Moving Mountain, called me Bartow also. But I am not he. I am
Bomba! Bomba, the jungle boy!”

Sobrinini paused, a look of bewilderment overspreading her sharp
features.

“Not Bartow? Not Bartow?” she mumbled, coming close to peer into the
lad’s face. “No, no, not Bartow, surely. But then you are Bartow’s
ghost.”

“I am no ghost!” cried Bomba. “Bones are in my body. Blood runs through
my veins. See--if you prick my flesh, it bleeds.”

In his eagerness to prove to the old crone that he was human and no
ghostly visitor, Bomba drew forth his machete and thrust the sharp
point of it into his brown, sinewy forearm. Blood welled up from the
slight cut, red, pulsing blood.

“See--I am no ghost!” cried the lad again. “Ghosts do not have blood.
Ghosts do not have bones. One can walk through ghosts as one walks
through the mists of the early morning. Let anyone try to walk through
me, Bomba, the jungle boy!”

The natives had stopped dancing and singing their wild invocation to
the dawn. Now they stood in a half circle about Sobrinini and Bomba,
looking on curiously.

At Bomba’s challenge, not one of them stirred. He looked exceedingly
dangerous, standing in all his splendid strength with the sunlight
glinting on the red point of his upraised machete. It would not be well
to try to walk through him.

The puzzled expression had deepened upon the face of Sobrinini. She
stood regarding Bomba with bewilderment and a dawning suspicion.

“Then if you are not Bartow and no ghost,” she demanded, “who are you?”

And suddenly all the lad’s long groping for the truth, his passionate
eagerness to learn the facts concerning his parents, the many
disappointments he had suffered and the realization of his desperate
loneliness rushed over him in an overwhelming flood, and filled him
with emotion that found vent in a headlong torrent of words.

“Who am I? If I could give you the answer to that question, Sobrinini,
I would not be here. I know nothing about myself except that I am
Bomba, a boy of the jungle, and have spent my life with Cody Casson on
the edge of the swamp. Casson could not tell me who I am nor who my
father and my mother were. He sent me to Jojasta, and Jojasta before
he died said, ‘Go to Sobrinini, she will tell you!’ I have come,
Sobrinini.”

He took a step toward her, hands outstretched.

At that instant there was a wild yell, and a native, panting, the sweat
streaming from him, dashed toward them and flung himself at the feet of
Sobrinini.

“The Great Spirit of the Jungle save us!” cried the frightened wretch,
trembling as with the ague. “The headhunters have come! The great
chief, Nascanora, is at hand!”

CHAPTER XX

IN THE HANDS OF THE HEADHUNTERS

There was a chorus of frightened exclamations and a wild scattering of
the natives that showed the dread that Nascanora’s name inspired in all
the people of that region.

In a twinkling, Sobrinini and Bomba found themselves alone.

The old woman herself had grown ashen. She grasped Bomba by the hand.

“Come!” she said. “I will hide you. Quick!”

But even as she spoke there was a wild yell from the forest, and a
horde of savages, headed by Nascanora himself, burst into the clearing.

Bomba had drawn his knife, determined to sell his life dearly. Seeing
his threatening attitude, the savages were rushing on him with spears
held high when a command from Nascanora halted them.

“Do not kill him--now,” he commanded. “That would be too easy. His
death, when it comes, must be hard and long. And after that his head
shall stand on the wigwam to show how Nascanora deals with his enemies.”

Sobrinini stepped forward, her eyes glaring.

“Beware what you do, Nascanora,” she warned. “Leave this boy alone
and go your way lest I put my spell upon you. It is not well to make
Sobrinini angry.”

There was a murmur of uneasiness among the savages, for the fame of
Sobrinini as a witch had gone far and wide. That Nascanora himself was
not wholly unmoved was evident from the way he evaded the blazing eyes
of the old woman.

But he was made of sterner stuff than his followers, and he had come
too far to be balked of his prey.

“I would have no quarrel with Sobrinini,” he said placatingly. “I do
not wish to hurt her or her people. But the boy must go with me. Else I
will kill all the people on this island and take their heads along for
the women of my tribe to rejoice over. Nascanora has spoken!”

Before Sobrinini could speak, Bomba intervened. To fight against such
odds was hopeless. Flight was equally impossible. He must submit to
capture, and trust to his quick wit and courage to escape later.

“Listen, Sobrinini!” he said. “They are many, and I do not wish that
your people should die. I will go with Nascanora. But first,” he
added, turning to the chief, whose eyes were glowing with a baleful
glare of triumph, “I would ask Nascanora a question.”

“Speak!” said the chief.

“Nascanora is a great chief,” said Bomba. “He is not afraid of anyone.
Is it not so?”

“It is so,” replied Nascanora, rather astonished at the tribute, but
swelling with pride.

“Then will Nascanora fight Bomba alone?” asked the lad. “Fight him with
knives?”

If a bomb had been thrown into the midst of the savages it would not
have created greater surprise. They looked at each other in amazement.
Was the boy mad?

The most astounded of all was Nascanora himself. He could not believe
his ears. To be bearded thus, he, Nascanora, in the presence of his
braves and by a boy! His eyes glowed with fury and his face grew dark
with menace.

“Such idle words will make your death still harder,” he threatened. “It
is not well to mock Nascanora.”

“I do not mock,” returned Bomba quietly. “I would make a compact with
Nascanora. I will fight him with knives. We can throw the knives or
fight hand to hand, as Nascanora chooses. But Nascanora must swear by
his gods and command his braves that, if he is killed, the captives
shall go free. It is for their freedom that I will fight Nascanora.
Surely he is not afraid.”

Lithe, supple, muscular, his head held high as he flung out the
concluding taunt, Bomba gazed full into the glowering eyes of the
chief. He hoped that Nascanora would be goaded into accepting the
challenge. The boy was a master of the machete, either thrust or
thrown. If he should conquer, as he felt sure he would, his victory at
one stroke would free the captives. If he should lose--well, that was
in the hands of fate.

Nascanora’s face was a study. It was working with rage that did not
hide, however, a shade of apprehension. He had tested the boy’s courage
on one previous occasion, and had learned to respect it. He towered
over his captive in size, but he doubted whether he exceeded him in
strength. And he doubted very much whether he equaled him in skill and
agility.

The chief was in a quandary. He knew that his braves were looking on
and wondering at his hesitation. On the other hand, life was dear to
him.

He glared at Bomba. The lad looked unflinchingly at him. And in the
duel of eyes, Nascanora’s were the first to fall.

“It is not for a great chief like Nascanora to fight with a boy,” he
blustered, seeking to cover his defeat. “He shall learn what happens
to them who speak boastful words to Nascanora. Bind his hands and we
will go.”

The command was quickly obeyed. Sobrinini again attempted to interpose,
but Bomba checked her.

“Sobrinini is good,” he said, “but there is no reason why she and her
people should be killed. Bomba will go, but he will come back again.”

“Yes, yes,” she whispered agitatedly. “You will come back. You are
brave. You made Nascanora’s heart turn to water. Sobrinini can see into
the future. You will come back, and then I will tell you what you want
to know.”

Bomba would have urged her to tell him then, but he was roughly
hurried away, leaving Sobrinini to wring her withered hands and mutter
invocations to her gods.

Despite his dangerous plight, Bomba found himself in a strangely
buoyant frame of mind. He still felt the exaltation that came from his
triumph over Nascanora. He had shamed him in the eyes of his braves.
Perhaps that would weaken his prestige with them and make ultimate
escape easier.

He was not oblivious, of course, to the fact that his defiance had made
Nascanora a more bitter enemy than ever. He watched the angry figure
striding along at the head of his braves. Doubtless at this moment the
chief was thinking of some fiendish mode of torture with which to
slake his thirst for revenge.

Before long they reached the part of the island where Nascanora had
disembarked. Here two great war canoes were drawn up. Bomba was pushed
into one of them, then the natives got in. With a few swift thrusts of
the paddle the canoes were sent into the center of the stream. Then
they headed their course for the mainland.

The savages were familiar with the rapids, and, evading the pitfalls of
the river, rapidly neared the other shore.

As they drew closer, Bomba saw the rest of Nascanora’s band camped
close to the shore. In the ring they formed he could see a group of
dejected figures, evidently the captives.

The canoes touched the bank. Bomba was pulled out by a couple of braves
and thrust into the crowd of prisoners. His eyes flew from face to face.

They rested on the frail, tired visage of an old man who rose and
tottered toward him.

“Casson!” cried Bomba.

“Bomba!” exclaimed Casson pantingly as he threw his arms about the
boy’s shoulders.

CHAPTER XXI

THE GIANT CATARACT

The old man sobbed as he hugged the lad to his breast.

Bomba’s joy at the reunion was no less, though his bound hands
prevented him from returning the embrace.

When at last they stood apart and looked fondly at each other, Bomba
was grieved to the heart to see the ravages that the hardships and
miseries of the journey had made in the face and frame of the old
naturalist. The first was so thin as to be almost transparent, and the
latter had wasted to a shadow.

But he was still alive. Bomba had not come too late to see him once
more in the flesh. He would still have a chance of rescuing him and
taking him back to the old cabin where he could end his days in peace.
But the boy’s heart sank as he looked at the bonds on his own wrists
and realized how slight his chances were to rescue anybody while he was
a captive himself.

When their first emotion had somewhat subsided, Bomba had time to look
about for the others that he knew. Many faces were strange to him,
and it was evident that, from the headhunters’ point of view, their
foray had been crowned with great success. They were carrying back an
unusually large number of prisoners, some to be tortured and killed,
others to drag out a lifetime of misery.

Bomba’s eyes lighted on Pipina, who came forward eagerly and threw her
arms about his neck with an outburst of tears and broken ejaculations.
Also, there was Hondura, the Araos chief, who greeted him merely with a
grunt and the habitual stolidity of his race.

Then his eyes fell upon Pirah, the young daughter of Hondura, who,
herself unbound, came running toward him with outstretched arms.

She clasped Bomba’s hands fondly, noting sorrowfully that they were
bound, and snuggled close up to him, smiling in his face. He reached
down, and as she drew near, rubbed her cheek with his.

“Is Bomba glad to see Pirah?” she asked almost happily.

“Yes,” answered the boy, forbearing to add that he would far rather
never have seen her at all than to see her in such a position. “Pirah
saved Bomba’s life when he came to the village of the Araos, and Bomba
will never forget.”

“But no, Bomba, you must not be glad. We are captives,” and the
child’s bright face clouded. “We go as slaves. You may not teach me,
as you did before, to shoot the bow and arrow. Do you remember when
you came to our village that you showed me how to use your bow? But
now--oh, what is to become of you, of me?”

Every word the little girl uttered stabbed Bomba to the heart. She
had saved his life once. She was his friend, and he had all too few
friends. He shuddered to think of what might be the fate of this
innocent child in the hands of the savage headhunters.

Their captors were preparing to break camp and were so busy with their
packing that for the time the prisoners were left to themselves. That
gave Bomba his chance to get together with Casson, Hondura and Pipina,
and exchange experiences.

He learned, to his relief, that they had not been treated as harshly as
he had feared. Their captors had kept them fairly well fed. But they
had told them frankly and gleefully why they did this. They wanted them
to be strong enough to endure for a long time the tortures that would
be meted out to them at the great festival that would attend the entry
of the triumphant warriors into their village.

But however fiendish might be the motive, the fact remained that the
prisoners were fairly strong and well. Bomba was glad of this, as
it would facilitate matters if a chance offered to make a break for
liberty.

He told them in detail of his own adventures, not neglecting the way he
had shamed Nascanora, at which they laughed gleefully. And he brought
new courage to them by telling them that the Araos, with all the
strength they could muster from other tribes, were following on their
trail. At any time now they might appear in sight and deliver them.

While he was talking he looked up and saw two figures approaching him.
They were downcast and abject and held their faces so low on their
breasts that at first he did not recognize them. But as they drew
nearer, he saw that they were Ashati and Neram.

“You here, too?” he said, as they squatted down beside him.

“Yes, master,” Ashati answered for both, while Neram nodded his head
despondently.

“I am sorry,” said Bomba. “How did it come that you fell into the hands
of Nascanora?”

“We were waiting for you near the bank of the river,” replied Ashati,
“when we heard the march of feet. We hid in the jungle, hoping that the
enemy would go past and not see us. But they had with them the man you
caught and who told you the way to go to the island of Sobrinini. He
led them to the place where you met him, and they beat the bushes till
they found us.”

“And that man told Nascanora that I had gone to the island, and that is
why they came there for me!” exclaimed Bomba.

“We should have killed the man while we had him on the ground,” stated
Neram.

“No,” said Bomba. “But it would have been well to have bound him and
left him with you until after Nascanora had passed by. Yet the man
swore by his gods that he would not tell.”

“Nascanora has ways of making men speak,” put in Ashati significantly.

“His heart is as black as Jojasta’s was,” declared Neram, as though
that summed up the total of human depravity. “He will torture us with
fire and steel and then place our heads on the wigwams of his people.”

“I do not think so,” said Bomba. “Sobrinini told me that I would get
away from him. And Bomba will not leave his friends Ashati and Neram
behind.”

The news helped to dissipate the gloom on the countenances of the
slaves.

“If Sobrinini said so, it must be true!” exclaimed Ashati, “for she is
a witch.”

“The greatest in all the jungle,” confirmed Neram. “She is very wise.
Her snakes whisper in her ears and tell her what will be in the days
to come.”

They turned away much cheered and comforted, and just then their
captors gave the signal for the march.

The prisoners were herded roughly together in the center of the
marching columns, so that there could be no possible chance to escape.
Fortunately, they had had a long rest while the war party under
Nascanora had been making the raid on Snake Island, so they were in
fairly good condition for the journey, and that the journey would not
be a long one was now evident from the thunderous sound that grew
ever louder and louder in their ears. They were approaching the Giant
Cataract, where dwelt Nascanora and his people.

To the hapless prisoners, that sound was like the knell of doom.

The thunderous sound increased in volume, and suddenly at a turn in the
trail, the most magnificent sight that Bomba had ever seen burst upon
them.

They had reached the Giant Cataract!

CHAPTER XXII

RUSPAK GLOATS

From a great bluff, hundreds of feet in height, a huge torrent of water
poured down into a gorge beneath and rose again in an ocean of spray.
The sound was deafening. The mass of waters gleamed with all the colors
of the rainbow. It was almost beyond the imagination of a dreamer.

It made Bomba catch his breath and stand entranced. For a few minutes
he forgot that he was a prisoner, forgot the horrors that might await
him. His soul drank in the beauty of this mighty cataract and its
splendor. He had heard of its wonders, but had never dreamed it could
be like this.

But there was little time to dwell on its grandeur and sublimity. The
harsh voices of their guards drove the prisoners on. To the besotted
minds of their captors the cataract was nothing, except that it
signified that they were once more at home and now could revel in the
torture of their victims.

The main village lay near the foot of the fall, and from this now came
pouring out the women and children and old men of the tribe.

There were shouts of delight as they saw the number of prisoners that
their warriors had brought with them. They gathered about the captives,
taunting and jeering at them and striking them with sticks until the
guards intervened, not out of pity, but in order that the captives
might be kept in good condition for the horrid festival that Nascanora
was planning.

The prisoners passed through the streets of the village and their
hearts sank, for they saw the human heads, shriveled and blackened
by the sun, that were fastened on poles on the tops of the wigwams.
They had evidently been there a long time. Now a new collection was in
prospect.

In the center of the village was a rough stockade. Into this the
prisoners were corralled and left under the supervision of guards,
while the others of the band dispersed to their homes.

The captives sank down under a pall of horror. This, then, was the end
of the trail. A day or two more, while their captors were preparing for
the great festival of blood, and then torture and death.

The only calm and collected person in the whole enclosure was Bomba.
Not that he was dwelling in a fool’s paradise. He did not disguise from
himself the awfulness of the situation. But he faced it unflinchingly.
His courage had never been at a higher pitch. His mind had never worked
more clearly. He could die, and die bravely, if need be. But he meant
to live.

He was making things as comfortable as he could for Casson and little
Pirah when he heard his name spoken. He looked up quickly and saw
before him Ruspak, the medicine man.

It was Ruspak that Bomba had once captured in the jungle and compelled
to accompany him to the cabin where Casson lay at the point of death.
Against his will, Ruspak had been forced to minister to the sick man,
whom his native medicines finally brought back from the grave. When
this had been done, Bomba had dismissed the medicine man with gifts and
they had parted with professions of friendship.

But how insincere those professions had been on the part of Ruspak and
how deeply he had resented the affront to his dignity as a medicine man
was evident now by the malignity in his eyes and the gloating smile on
his lips.

“So Bomba, the mighty Bomba, is a prisoner in the hands of Nascanora!”
he jeered. “He finds now what happens to one who insults the messenger
of the gods.”

Bomba looked at him quietly, but made no answer.

“Where now is the white man’s magic?” Ruspak sneered, as he looked
mockingly at Casson. “Where is the puma that kept guard before the
door?”

Still Bomba kept quiet, and looked at his tormentor with a contempt
that stung Ruspak to the quick.

“So Bomba has lost his tongue,” snapped the medicine man. “But
Nascanora will find that tongue. He will pull it out with redhot
pincers. Then he will cool Bomba’s mouth with water. You came to the
Giant Cataract. You see plenty water. Bomba shall have water. We will
fill his body with it till he bursts.”

Still Bomba disdained to answer.

“Bomba is strong,” mocked Ruspak. “Very strong. That is good. He can
stand torture for a long time before he dies. His eyes can be plucked
out, and still he will live. He can be burned with torches in a hundred
places and still he will live. His fingers can be cut off one by one,
and still he will live. Death will seem very sweet to Bomba. He will
pray for it, but it will be a long time before it comes. Nascanora will
see to that.”

But all his recital of the horrid tortures that were preparing for
Bomba failed to elicit a single word from the contemptuous captive, and
Ruspak at last left him and went away, mumbling to himself and licking
his lips in anticipation.

Bomba turned to Casson and Hondura, who were seated near by. He hoped
that they had not heard all that Ruspak had said. But the tears in the
faded eyes of Casson showed that he had heard all too clearly and that
his heart was wrung with anguish.

“Do not mind him,” the lad soothed the old man, as he patted him on
the shoulder. “He speaks big words, but they are like the wind in the
trees. If my hands had not been bound, it would have been a bad thing
for Ruspak.”

“He has a black heart and a tongue that is as bitter as the aloe
plant,” said Hondura.

Bomba glanced around to see that none of the sentries were observing
him.

“Hondura,” he said, “slip your hand under the puma skin that covers my
chest, reach up near my neck and tell me what you find.”

Hondura did so, and drew back his hand quickly as it touched something
hard and sharp.

“It is your machete,” he whispered.

“Yes,” replied Bomba in the same low tone. “I hung it there in a noose
when I heard the headhunters were coming. After they had bound my
hands, they were in such a hurry to get away from the witch, Sobrinini,
that they did not search me. They thought of it afterward, but when
they looked for it in my belt it was gone, and they thought I had lost
it or left it in Sobrinini’s house. But it is here, and it will be a
good friend to Bomba.”

Hondura’s eyes lighted up as he grunted his satisfaction.

“It may yet find the heart of Nascanora,” he said.

“Perhaps,” assented Bomba. “But first the hands of Bomba must be free.
When it is dark, Hondura will take the knife and cut the bonds of
Bomba, not all the way, or the guards may notice, but so near through
that Bomba can burst them when he wills.”

“Hondura will do so,” promised the Araos chief.

The tropic night soon fell and the darkness was made more intense than
usual by the absence of moon or stars. A great storm was gathering.
Claps of thunder deafened their ears and vivid lightning flashes shot
across the sky.

Before long the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain came down
in a deluge. It was a veritable cloudburst.

There was a shedlike structure in the stockade, used for storage of
fodder for the cattle, and into this the prisoners huddled, finding
some shelter from the fury of the elements.

For hours the torrential rain persisted. All that time Bomba’s brain
was at work thinking out plans of escape, rejecting one, seizing on
another, and weighing the chances of all. The case was desperate, but
his spirit was indomitable.

Presently he noted a change in the sound of the cataract. The rains had
swelled it tremendously, and its roar had increased. But it was not
this that the jungle lad especially noted. It was a series of sharp
reports, of splintering crashes, of jars that shook the earth, that
caused him to listen in wonder.

Then he heard a loud screaming as of men and women in panic, a rushing
of many feet and hoarse shouts that sent the guards scurrying from
their posts in terror.

“The rocks of the falls are breaking! The cataract is coming down on
the village! Run! Run! Run!”

CHAPTER XXIII

A MAD STAMPEDE

Bomba was on his feet instantly, his mind working with precision and
rapidity.

He sensed in a moment the full meaning of the calamity and the
advantages that he and the other captives might reap from it.

The enormous bulk of water that had swelled the volume of the cataract
from the rain had broken the rocks that formed its brink. These had
given way so that the course of the cataract had changed, and part of
the water that had previously fallen into the gorge was now sweeping
down on the doomed village.

In accordance with his promise, Hondura had severed the boy’s bonds so
that only a single strand was left. This he snapped like thread.

The guards had gone, forgetting all about the prisoners in the wild
instinct of self-preservation. They had joined the rabble that were
now rushing from their huts and through the passageways between, only
intent for the moment on getting away from the waters that threatened
to overwhelm them.

Bomba called Hondura and Pipina to his side.

“The gods have been good to us,” he cried. “We must go now and go
quickly. They will not think of us until their fright is over. Hondura,
get your people and lead them out. Pipina, take care of Casson. I will
take Pirah--carry her if necessary--and go in front. Keep close to me.”

In a twinkling his orders were carried out. The prisoners, stirred to
new life by this unexpected chance of escape after all hope had been
lost, responded to the call of their chief, hurried out of the stockade
and mingled with the frantic, fleeing headhunters.

Not the slightest notice was taken of them by their captors. The night
was very dark, and in their excitement it was impossible for the
headhunters to distinguish friend from foe. All thought was lost save
that of getting away from the doom that threatened them.

Bomba’s marvelous sense of direction stood him in good stead. Dark as
it was, he knew exactly the way he meant to go.

Luckily it was not the way in which the majority of the panic-stricken
people had chosen. They were pressing toward the north. Bomba’s plan
was to go toward the south, retracing the path they had followed that
afternoon.

This had a double advantage. With every step he would be widening the
distance between the prisoners and their captors. If he could once win
clear of the crowd, he and his companions would have a whole night’s
start in case of pursuit.

Then, too, he felt sure that by this time the people of Hondura’s
tribe, with what auxiliaries they could have mustered, had set out
to rescue their chief. At any time now they might be met coming, and
coming in such force that they would have a good chance for victory, if
it came to a fight with the headhunters.

Bomba hurried on in the lead, protecting and shielding little Pirah in
every way he could. Pipina and Casson were close behind, and the rest
of the prisoners, led by Hondura, followed at their heels.

The party of captives had almost reached the end of the straggling
village when a huge figure loomed up before them. He was hastening in a
direction opposite to them, but not at such a headlong pace, as though
he had a certain dignity to maintain which forbade too much yielding to
fright.

Bomba could not see his face, but he knew that there was but one such
towering figure in the tribe. It was Nascanora!

Bomba handed over Pirah to Hondura. Then he felt for his knife.

He still kept up his pace, hoping to pass the chief without being
noticed. But there was something in his stride or form that aroused the
chief’s suspicions.

“Stop!” he commanded, barring the way and stooping down to peer into
the boy’s face.

Bomba had pulled out his knife from its hiding place by the blade. He
had no time to grasp the hilt, but with all the power in his muscular
arm he swung the heavy weapon, and the iron haft struck Nascanora right
between the eyes. The giant chief went down as though he had been hit
by an axe.

Like a flash, Bomba dragged him out of the road and threw him into the
bushes at the side.

“Better make sure with the point of the knife,” suggested Hondura.

“No,” said Bomba, “I will not kill a man who cannot fight. He will not
wake till morning, and then we shall be far from here.”

His hopes were higher now as he pressed on. His one fear had been that
Nascanora might rally his people and pursue his former prisoners. That
fear now had vanished. Without their chief the headhunters would be
confused and bewildered, and, not knowing what to do, would probably do
nothing.

But now another enemy threatened. The waters of the cataract that had
already wiped out most of the village were expanding into the open
country. Already it was lapping at the fugitives’ heels, as though
determined to draw them back and overwhelm them. It retarded their
progress. Their feet stuck in the clammy ooze. The water kept rising
higher and higher. It reached their ankles. It reached their knees. It
seemed as though it were destined to conquer.

Then, just when it seemed that hope must be abandoned, an inspiriting
cry came from Bomba.

“The road is leading upward!” he shouted. “We are coming to a hill! The
waters shall not have us!”

There was a jubilant chorus of shouts as the party struck the incline,
and in a few minutes they were on ground above the swirling waters of
the mighty river. The Giant Cataract had reached out for them, but they
had eluded its grasp!

It was an exhausted but happy throng of refugees that sank down upon
the slope as soon as they had reached a safe distance.

Their situation had changed as though by the waving of a magician’s
wand. Two hours before they had been helpless victims in the hands of
the headhunters, doomed to torture and to death. Now their enemies
were scattered, demoralized, fleeing for their lives from an enemy as
pitiless as themselves.

The rain had ceased now, and the traveling promised to be easier.
Bomba gave them a little time to rest, and then the journey was resumed.

The lake that now extended between them and their enemies was another
element in their favor. It would be some time before the waters would
subside so as to make pursuit possible.

All through the night the little party pressed on, and not until the
first glimmer of dawn appeared in the eastern sky did they stop to make
camp and obtain a much needed rest on the banks of the River of Death.

While the Indians scurried around in the forest to find jaboty eggs,
nuts, and fruit for the morning meal, Bomba climbed a great tree on the
bank of the river to look back on the trail they had traversed.

From the top he could see for many miles. His keen eyes scanned the
horizon, but could detect no traces of pursuers.

With his heart temporarily at rest, he was about to descend when he
became conscious of a swaying, rocking motion of the tree. At the same
moment a shout came from below:

“The tree is falling! Come down! Quick!”

CHAPTER XXIV

IN THE SWIRL OF THE RAPIDS

The warning to Bomba came too late.

The tree had been undermined by the current, swelled by the recent
rain. It had probably been tottering to its fall when Bomba climbed it,
and his weight and his movements among the branches determined its fate.

Bomba was too high to jump. From such a distance he would surely have
broken a limb and possibly his neck. He could only cling tightly to the
bough on which he found himself and trust to chance.

Slowly the tree toppled, and then, with a tremendous splash, fell into
the river. Its momentum carried it for a moment beneath the surface.
Then it came up again with Bomba, drenched and sputtering, still
holding tightly to the bough.

Fortunately he had been on the landward side of the tree, so that he
was on the upper side as the tree swirled in the current.

Now, as his eyes cleared, he found that he was not alone. Ashati and
Neram had been standing at the foot of the tree, and as its great
roots tore loose from the ground they caught the two ex-slaves and
flung them with the force of a catapult far out into the stream.

They had made for the tree as the nearest haven of safety, and now
climbed up into the branches and drew as near as they could to Bomba.

The lad’s first impulse, when he found himself afloat, was to plunge
into the river and swim for the bank, two hundred feet away. But even
as the thought came into his mind he caught sight of the scaly body and
horrid head of an alligator between him and the shore. The brute would
have had him before he had gone twenty feet.

By this time the tree had been caught in the rapids, those terrible
rapids of the River of Death whose power Bomba had already tested.

Had it been merely the trunk of a tree on which they found themselves,
they would have been tossed off in a moment. But the great spreading
branches kept it from turning over. Even at that, it was tossed about
like a chip, and great waves broke over it, threatening at any moment
to dislodge Bomba and his two companions, who had to hold on with all
their might to prevent being swept away.

The horror of their position was intensified by the presence of a swarm
of alligators, whose eyes had detected them and looked upon them as
certain prey. The monsters swam about the tree on every side, at times
dashing up from underneath with wide open jaws, in the hope of reaching
them and pulling them down.

Ashati and Neram thought that their last hour had come, and Bomba was
inclined to agree with them. The tree might stay there, buffeted back
and forth, for days. They could not guide it. They dared not leave it.

From the contemplation of his own plight, his thoughts turned to those
on shore. He was thankful that they were safe for the moment. Hondura
was there to lead them, and the wily chief knew all the lore and
craft of the jungle. With the start he had over his enemies and the
probability that he would soon fall in with his own warriors coming to
his rescue, Hondura would probably win through.

And Bomba knew that the old chief and his people would take good care
of Casson. Good old Casson! Would he ever see the old man again, the
lad wondered.

But a different and more welcome turn was given to his thoughts when
Bomba discovered that the fierce tossing had ceased. The tree had been
thrown from the rapids into smoother water, and was now drifting in the
grip of a strong current in the same direction that Bomba’s canoe had
taken two days before.

In a little while the point of land resembling a finger had been
reached and passed, at so little distance that it would have been easy
to swim to it, had it not been for the monster caymen that still kept
pace with them.

Ashati and Neram had recovered their spirits, now that they had escaped
the grip of the rapids.

“The Spirit of the Jungle is good!” exclaimed Ashati.

“It will not be long before we touch land somewhere,” prophesied Neram,
hopefully.

“Yes,” said Bomba, as his eyes caught sight of Sobrinini’s domain
looming up before them, “and the land will be Snake Island.”

At this name of ominous import a shudder ran through Bomba’s companions.

“The island of the witch woman!” exclaimed Ashati, making cabalistic
signs to ward off evil.

“The woman with the evil eye which brings death to everyone on whom it
falls!” said Neram with a shiver.

“Listen!” said Bomba. “You talk like foolish men. Is Bomba dead? Yet
Sobrinini’s look fell upon Bomba. She is a wise woman. Did she not say
that I would come back to Snake Island? And is Bomba not going back? I
do not like her snakes. But she has done no evil to Bomba, and she will
do no hurt to Bomba’s friends. And Ashati and Neram are my friends.”

The boy’s words brought some reassurance to his companions, but not
enough to banish their fears wholly, and it was with great trepidation
that they viewed the dreaded island as the tree drew ever nearer.

As for Bomba himself, he was almost glad at the accident which had at
the time seemed so disastrous. He would not of his own accord have
taken the time just now to visit Sobrinini again, eager as he was to
renew his questioning. She had been on the very point of telling him
what he wanted to know when Nascanora and his braves had broken in upon
them. Perhaps this time he would be more fortunate.

He was immersed in these thoughts when to their ears came a wailing
cry, so weird, so uncanny, so long drawn out, that it chilled their
blood.

It came from the direction of the island, but, strain their eyes as
they might, they could detect no human figure from whom the cry might
have issued.

The sound was the signal for another outbreak of fear on the part of
the ex-slaves. They were brave enough when facing human or animal foes,
as they had shown in their combat with the jaguars, but when brought in
contact with what they regarded as supernatural, their hearts melted
within them.

They whimpered and cowered and glanced at the water, as though they
were almost willing to take their chances with the alligators rather
than approach the island they deemed accursed.

But they had drawn nearer now and they could detect an agitated,
tumultuous group of figures on the shore.

The wailing cry came again, so near this time that Ashati and Neram
nearly lost their grip on the boughs.

Then from out the fringe of trees that lined the shore shot a small
canoe, paddled with frantic energy by a withered old woman, her
straggling locks streaming behind her head, her face convulsed with
fear.

“Sobrinini!” cried Bomba.

CHAPTER XXV

THE RESCUE OF SOBRININI

With Bomba, to think was to act.

In a moment he had made his way out on the bough to a point where the
foliage thinned out and there was a chance of his being seen.

“Sobrinini! Sobrinini!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

At the call, the old crone ceased paddling for a moment and turned her
haggard face in the direction of the tree.

“Who calls?” she cried shrilly. “Who is it that calls Sobrinini?”

“It is Bomba!” shouted the lad, at the same time shaking the bough of
the tree violently to attract her attention.

She caught the movement of the foliage, and, peering closely, saw the
outline of Bomba’s face and form.

“Bartow!” she cried. “Or is it Bartow’s ghost? You have come to see
Sobrinini die.”

“No!” replied Bomba. “I have come to help Sobrinini live. Come
quickly!”

This last admonition was prompted by the sight of another boat
containing several natives of the island putting out from the shore. He
sensed at once that their errand was hostile.

Sobrinini saw them too, and with a few strokes of her paddle brought
the canoe directly beneath the jungle boy.

Bomba dropped lightly into the canoe, and then held it steady until
Ashati and Neram had time to follow his example.

The other boat was coming on rapidly now, and time was pressing. Bomba
took the paddle from Sobrinini’s hands and pressed her gently to the
bottom of the boat.

But before he dipped the paddle into the water he drew his knife and
shook it menacingly at the approaching natives.

“Go back or you will die!” he shouted. “This is the knife that
frightened Nascanora. It made his heart like that of a woman. Who are
you to stand before it when even the chief of the headhunters was
afraid?”

It was a wholesome reminder, and it had an immediate effect. They
recognized Bomba now as the jungle boy whose challenge Nascanora had
been afraid to accept. That scene had made an indelible impression upon
their minds. They stopped paddling, and excited jabbering ensued.

Bomba faced them for a full minute. Then with a disdainful gesture
he replaced the knife in his belt, as though they were foes too
insignificant to bother with any further, took up the paddle, and
without once looking behind him made for the opposite shore.

His evident fearlessness and contempt decided the issue. The pursuing
party, after a little irresolution, gave up the chase and turned the
prow of their boat in the direction of Snake Island.

Sobrinini had said nothing coherent since her rescue, but sat crouched
on the bottom of the boat mumbling to herself, her long, disheveled
hair shielding her face. Bomba regarded her curiously from time to
time, half expecting to see one or more snakes make their appearance.
But it soon became apparent that all her horrid “pets” had been left
behind in her hurried flight.

Ashati and Neram kept as far away from her as they could, crowding
against each other to avoid contact with the “witch” whose name spread
terror through all that region.

Why had she fled from the island where she had so long held sway? Why
had her formerly submissive slaves turned against her? Bomba longed to
question her, but had to defer that to another time. He wished that she
had brought with her that picture, the picture of that sweet, beautiful
woman, whose eyes had looked so fondly into his.

After a long siege of paddling, the boat touched the farther shore.
Bomba jumped out and pulled the canoe far up on the shelving bank. Then
he helped Sobrinini out, while Ashati and Neram leaped ashore quickly,
glad to be freed from their enforced proximity to the witch.

At Bomba’s command, the men scattered to gather a little food from
the forest, and soon returned with nuts and berries that partially
satisfied their hunger.

Bidding them stay where they were, Bomba penetrated some distance into
the jungle to see if he could pick up the trail of Hondura and his
party.

He had not gone far before he began to sniff. He smelled smoke. His
eyes followed the indications of his nostrils, and he finally caught
sight of a shred of smoke rising above trees not far distant.

He was about to drop on his hands and knees and creep through the brush
to reconnoiter, when he heard a sound that made his heart leap with
delight.

It came to him faintly, and yet was unmistakable. Somebody was playing
a harmonica!

Reassured now, but still not abandoning his habitual caution, he moved
forward until from the shelter of a bush he could see encamped in a
clearing, while they prepared their midday meal, a large party of
natives, evidently on the warpath, as they were armed to the teeth.

He knew them at once. They were the Araos coming to the rescue of their
chief. There was Lodo, evidently in command, a little apart from the
rest. And there was Grico, squatting on his haunches and bringing weird
sounds from Bomba’s harmonica for the delectation of his mates.

Bomba stepped from the shelter of the bush, his hands upraised with
palms outward in sign of friendship.

There was a chorus of ejaculations, a hurried grasping of weapons, and
then shouts of pleasure as they recognized the newcomer.

They crowded about him with every manifestation of delight,
overwhelming him with questions. And cries of joy went up as Bomba, in
as few words as possible, told them what had happened and that Hondura
with the ex-captives must be close at hand and coming to meet them.

Instantly their meal was forgotten as they gathered up their weapons
and supplies and prepared to go forward to greet their chief, their
women, and their children.

Grico, the man with the one eye and the split nose, had listened to
Bomba’s story with such absorbed interest that he still held the
harmonica loosely in his hand. Bomba reached out coolly and took it
from him.

Grico looked astonished and sheepish. And he was still more abashed
when Bomba, noting a protuberance in Grico’s pouch, reached in and drew
out the precious revolver.

“It was good of Grico to keep these for Bomba till he should come back
again,” said the boy in the friendliest of tones, as he stowed away the
treasures in his pouch.

His look was so kindly, so innocent, that Grico did not know what to do
or say. Ordinarily this would have meant a fight. But Grico knew that
Bomba was a bad opponent to pick for a fight, and, besides, at this
moment, the boy was high in the favor of the tribe.

And Bomba’s eyes were very compelling, despite their friendliness.
Grico had never heard of an iron hand in a velvet glove, but he felt
that something of that kind was very close by.

So he swallowed hard for a moment, and then took advantage of the
opening that Bomba had given him.

“Y--yes,” he stammered. “Grico found them in the jungle and kept them
for Bomba.”

“Grico did well, and Bomba will not forget,” said the lad gravely.

It was arranged hastily that Bomba should go back and get his
companions and then join the war party as they went forward to meet
their chief.

Ashati and Neram greeted Bomba’s news with cries of delight. Sobrinini
showed no emotion whatever. It was doubtful whether she understood.
She was sunk in a state of apathy, the natural reaction from her
exciting experiences.

It was difficult to get her to her feet at all, but the need was urgent
and Bomba put his strong arm under hers, and with Ashati and Neram made
as good time as possible in the direction of the line of march.

Luckily, their journey was not prolonged, for before an hour had passed
a joyous hubbub not far ahead told them that the two parties had joined
forces. Hondura and the ex-prisoners were once more with their own
people.

Bomba was welcomed with wild acclaim when he came into view. Casson and
Pipina especially greeted him with tears and embraces that testified
how deeply they were moved.

There was a great feast to celebrate the reunion, followed by a long
powwow between Hondura, Grico and Lodo. Bomba was invited to join the
conference, but declined, as he felt this was a matter that concerned
them chiefly and he did not want to take any responsibility for the
future movements of the tribe.

The result of the powwow was that the natives formed themselves into
two bands. One, consisting of picked warriors under the leadership of
Lodo, with Grico as his lieutenant, proceeded toward the Giant Cataract
to give battle to the headhunters and remove forever, if possible,
that menace to the peaceful tribes of the region.

Others, under the guidance of the aged chief, Hondura, convoyed the
rescued women and children in the direction of their maloca, which they
planned to rebuild.

The grateful Hondura detailed eight of his men to make two litters on
which they bore Casson and Sobrinini, who had reached the limit of
their strength, to the cabin of Pipina.

When their paths at last diverged, Hondura and Bomba clasped each other
by the shoulders and vowed eternal friendship. Pirah wept bitterly at
the separation, and could only be comforted by Bomba’s promise to come
to see her before long.

Bomba had cherished a vague hope that something dramatic would take
place when Casson and Sobrinini were brought face to face. He hoped the
meeting would unlock the floodgates of memories which they shared in
common.

But to his bitter disappointment nothing of the kind occurred. Age had
changed each so utterly that neither recognized the other. They looked
at each other indifferently, and then their eyes turned away.

He had not named either one to the other as yet, and both were so
apathetic that they showed no curiosity. But though disheartened,
Bomba did not wholly despair. When they should get to the cabin of
Pipina he would try again.

Ashati and Neram had begged to be allowed to go along with Bomba, and
he had willingly agreed. The faithful fellows were devoted to him heart
and soul, and they might be of great service to him whenever he should
be compelled to absent himself from the cabin.

Shred by shred, in monosyllables and muttered exclamations, Bomba
gathered, as he walked beside Sobrinini’s litter, the reason for her
flight from the island. He had already guessed it pretty accurately.

Her harsh rule had for a long time galled the natives, who sought
an excuse for rebellion. That excuse had been found in the visit of
Nascanora. They had expected that she would annihilate him on the spot.
Was she not a witch? But when, on the contrary, Nascanora had triumphed
and taken her guest from under her protection, their belief in her
supernatural powers failed, their long-smothered resentment broke
forth, and she had been compelled to flee for her life.

The little party reached the cabin of Pipina without any untoward
happening, the braves departed for their maloca, and the little
household, now increased by three, was reëstablished.

Bomba waited till several days had elapsed and his aged charges had
become rested and strengthened after their exhausting experiences
before he broached the subject that was nearest his heart.

Then, one evening after supper, he turned to them as they were sitting
dreamily in the large room of the little cabin.

“Casson!” he said. “Sobrinini! Look upon each other and tell me what
you see.”

They started at his sharp command, and gazed bewilderedly at him, then
at each other.

At first there was no recognition, but as they gazed fixedly a dawning
wonderment came into their eyes.

Casson was the first to speak.

“Sobrinini!” he cried. “No, that is not Sobrinini. Sobrinini was
beautiful. Sobrinini could sing. And yet--and yet----”

“Casson!” exclaimed Sobrinini in her turn. “It cannot be Casson. He was
young and strong, and his hair was like that of the raven. But I am
Sobrinini. I can sing. Listen!”

She sprang to her feet and sang in her cracked voice the song that
Bomba had heard in the language he did not understand. As she sang,
Casson began to beat his withered palms together in applause, and
finally got to his feet and started to dance about the room.

It was weird and uncanny, and Bomba looked on, fascinated yet
horrified, until the song ended, the dance stopped, and the aged
participants sank trembling in their chairs.

“You do know each other!” cried Bomba. “And you know about my father
and my mother. Tell me, oh, tell me who they were, where they are! Tell
me!”

They looked at him, trying to gather their poor scattered wits. Casson
rubbed his forehead with his hand.

“Ask Jojasta,” he muttered. “I cannot remember. The door is closed. But
Jojasta knows. Ask him.”

“But Jojasta is dead!” exclaimed Bomba.

“Oh, yes,” replied Casson. “You told me he was dead. Then ask
Sobrinini. Nini will know.”

In desperation, Bomba turned to the woman.

“You tell me,” he begged. “You were going to tell me when Nascanora
came. Tell me now!”

“I forget--I forget,” murmured Sobrinini. “I cannot tell you, Bartow.”

“I am not Bartow,” said Bomba.

“Then you are his ghost,” muttered the crone.

“No, no!” cried Bomba. “Look at me. Try to remember.”

She stared at him long and hard.

“If you are not Bartow nor Bartow’s ghost, you are his son,” she
declared. “Andrew Bartow and Laura--yes, her name was Laura--had a son
who was named Bonny. She used to sing to him like this--” and again
she crooned the tender cradle song that had stirred Bomba so strangely.

She relapsed into meditation, still humming that haunting song.

“Yes,” prompted Bomba eagerly. “Where are Bartow and Laura now? And
Bonny----”

“Bonny!” she repeated. “Oh, yes, Bonny was stolen. He was stolen from
home by--by--Japazy! That was his name--a half-breed. Japazy hated
Bartow and hated Casson, too. I do not know why he hated them. And
then--and then--oh, I cannot remember! But ask Japazy--he will know.
Look for Japazy on Jaguar Island above the cataract.”

Her voice died away in disjointed mutterings, and from neither her nor
Casson could he get anything clearer that evening nor in the days that
followed.

The boy was desperate. It seemed that the half-demented man and woman
could get no further. Bomba had got merely a clue.

But that in itself was something. How Bomba followed it up and what
exciting perils and adventures he met in fulfilling his task will be
told in the next volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy
on Jaguar Island; or, Adrift on the River of Mystery.”

From the pain and disappointment in his heart Bomba sought relief with
his wild friends of the forest. They could always sympathize with his
mood and in some degree understand it. To them he talked, and they
chattered in reply. And his sore heart was eased in their companionship.

One day, when he had been playing his harmonica and Doto, the monkey,
and Kiki and Woowoo, the parrots, and others of their mates were
gathered around him, there was a crashing in the bushes, and faithful
Polulu, the giant puma, bounded into the clearing.

The others scattered like magic as the formidable beast came up to
Bomba, purring and rubbing his head against him.

“Good old Polulu!” exclaimed Bomba, as he caressed the great head
affectionately. “He is one of Bomba’s best friends. Bomba is glad to
see him. But Bomba cannot stay with Polulu long. He is going on a long
journey. For Bomba’s place is not here. He is not a native of the
jungle. He has a soul. He is white. Yes, Bomba is white. And Bomba’s
soul cannot be at rest until he dwells among the white people.”

THE END

THE BOMBA BOOKS

By ROY ROCKWOOD

_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With Colored jacket._

_Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._

_Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented
naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a
lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty
machete. He had only a primitive education, and his daring adventures
will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._

   1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY
   2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN
   3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT
   4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND
   5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY
   6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL
   7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH
   8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES
   9. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON THE UNDERGROUND RIVER
  10. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE LOST EXPLORERS
  11. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN A STRANGE LAND
  12. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE PYGMIES
  13. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE CANNIBALS
  14. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE PAINTED HUNTERS
  15. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE RIVER DEMONS
  16. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AND THE HOSTILE CHIEFTAIN
  17. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY TRAPPED BY THE CYCLONE
  18. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE LAND OF BURNING LAVA

These books may be purchased wherever books are sold

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  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES

By LESTER CHADWICK

_12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents
additional._

  1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS
     _or The Rivals of Riverside_

  2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
     _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_

  3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE
     _or Pitching for the College Championship_

  4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE
     _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_

  5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE
     _or A Young Pitcher’s Hardest Struggles_

  6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS
     _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_

  7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES
     _or Pitching for the Championship_

  8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD
     _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_

  9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING
     _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_

 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE
     _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_

 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM
     _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_

 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE
     _or The Record that was Worth While_

 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER
     _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_

 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD
     _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_

_Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._

  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

THE GREAT ACE SERIES

By NOËL SAINSBURY, JR.

Author of THE CHAMPION SPORT STORIES

_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in colors. Price 50 cents per volume.
Postage 10 cents additional._

_Here is a series of rattling good flying stories told by an expert.
A boy-aviator’s adventures in the wilds of New Guinea, Arabia, South
America and other strange lands. Billy Smith, son of an eminent
explorer, learns to pilot a seaplane aboard a Naval Air Station, and
immediately fares forth upon a series of the most exciting cruises and
mysterious quests by air, by land and by sea that have ever fallen to
the lot of man. The author, a traveller and ex-naval aviator, brings
many of his own adventures into these tales. Every boy with a drop of
red blood in his veins will want to join Billy Smith in his thrilling
quests._

1. BILLY SMITH--EXPLORING ACE
   _or By Airplane to New Guinea_

  The story of a fourteen-year-old lad, taught to pilot a seaplane by
  his uncle, Lieut.-Commander on a Naval Air Station. Together they are
  forced down at sea, and Lieut.-Com. Smith is so impressed with the
  lad’s courage in this trying situation that he takes Billy with him to
  New Guinea to help search for Billy’s father.

2. BILLY SMITH--SECRET SERVICE ACE
   _or Airplane Adventures in Arabia_

  Billy Smith again proves his mettle in a series of adventures that
  take him to Port Sudan on the Red Sea and the Holy City of Hejaz.

3. BILLY SMITH--MYSTERY ACE
   _or Airplane Discoveries in South America_

  Doctor Stanton, bird man of the Natural History Museum disappeared in
  the Amazon Jungles. The Smiths, father and son are ordered to find
  him, and the trail leads to an outpost rubber plantation, where Billy
  is lost in the jungle and captured by the cannibal Mangeroma Indians.

4. BILLY SMITH--TRAIL EATER ACE
   _or Into the Wilds of Northern Alaska_

  Another exciting story. Billy Smith and his pal, Nuky, with the aid
  of Billy’s father set a trap to catch desperate gangsters which they
  succeed in doing after many thrilling adventures.

5. BILLY SMITH--SHANGHAIED ACE
   _or Malay Pirates and Solomon Island Cannibals_

  Billy shanghaied while on a search for a missing steamer and one
  passenger in particular, escapes in time to be of vast help, after
  all, and bring off a famous rescue in the South Sea Islands.

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MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE BOOKS FOR BOYS

_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jackets._

_Price 50 cents per volume._

_Postage 10 cents additional._

=SOUTH FROM HUDSON BAY=, by E. C. BRILL

  A thrilling tale of the coming of settlers from France and Switzerland
  to the wilderness of the Prairie country of the Red River district.

=THE SECRET CACHE=, by E. C. BRILL

  The father of two boys, a fur hunter, has been seriously injured by an
  Indian. Before he dies he succeeds in telling the younger son about a
  secret cache of valuable furs, who starts off to find the cache, and
  after many adventures succeeds.

=THE ISLAND OF YELLOW SANDS=, by E. C. BRILL

  An exciting story of Adventure in Colonial Days in the primitive
  country around Lake Superior, when the forest and waters were the
  hunting ground of Indians, hunters and trappers.

=LOST CITY OF THE AZTECS=, by J. A. LATH

  Four chums find a secret code stuck inside the binding of an old
  book written many years ago by a famous geologist. The boys finally
  solve the code, learn of the existence of the remnant of a civilized
  Aztec tribe inside an extinct crater in Arizona. Their many stirring
  adventures makes a story of tremendous present-day scientific interest
  that every boy will enjoy.

=THE CORTEZ EMERALD MYSTERY=, by J. A. LATH

  A huge emerald--credited as part of the treasure of the famous
  explorer, Cortez, in the 16th Century is stolen from a museum at
  Roller University. This absorbing mystery tells how four chums succeed
  in tracing the gang responsible.

=THE PHANTOM SHIP=, by JAMES (“COACH”) SCHERMERHORN, JR.

  Rock Cranton in trouble, calls on his old coach in Dexter College to
  come to his assistance. The Coach comes a running, and that is the
  beginning of a strange mystery yarn that no boy will want to lay down
  until it is completed.

These books may be purchased wherever books are sold

_Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_

  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

CHAMPION SPORTS STORIES

By NOËL SAINSBURY, JR.

_Every boy enjoys sport stories. Here we present three crackerjack
stories of baseball, football, and basketball, written in the
vernacular of the boy of to-day, full of action, suspense and thrills,
in language every boy will understand, and which we know will be
enthusiastically endorsed by all boys._

_Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per
volume. Postage 10 cents additional._

1. CRACKER STANTON
   _Or The Making of a Batsman_

  Ralph Stanton, big, rawboned and serious, is a product of the
  backwoods and a crack rifle shot. Quick thinking and pluck bring him a
  scholarship to Clarkville School where he is branded “grind” and “dub”
  by classmates. How his batting brings them first place in the League
  and how he secures his appointment to West Point make CRACKER STANTON
  an up-to-the-minute baseball story no lover of the game will want to
  put down until the last word is read.

2. GRIDIRON GRIT
   _Or The Making of a Fullback_

  A corking story of football packed full of exciting action and good,
  clean competitive rivalry. Shorty Fiske is six-foot-four and the
  product of too much money and indulgence at home. How Clarkville
  School and football develop Shorty’s real character and how he
  eventually stars on the gridiron brings this thrilling tale of school
  life and football to a grandstand finish.

3. THE FIGHTING FIVE
   _Or the Kidnapping of Clarkville’s Basketball Team_

  Clarkville School’s basketball team is kidnapped during the game for
  the State Scholastic Championship. The team’s subsequent adventures
  under the leadership of Captain Charlie Minor as he brings them
  back to the State College Gymnasium where the two last quarters of
  the Championship game are played next evening, climaxes twenty-four
  pulsating hours of adventure and basketball in the FIGHTING FIVE....

  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

SORAK JUNGLE SERIES

By HARVEY D. RICHARDS

_The name Sorak means War Cry in the Malay country. He grows up among
the most primitive of the Malay aborigines, and learns to combat
all the terrors of the jungle with safety. The constant battle with
nature’s forces develop Sorak’s abilities to such an extent that he is
acknowledged the chief warrior in all his section of the jungle._

_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per volume._

_Postage 10 cents additional._

1. SORAK OF THE MALAY JUNGLE
   _or How Two Young Americans Face Death and Win a Friend_

  Two boys, Dick and Jack Preston are shipwrecked off the Malay
  Peninsula and are rescued by Sorak. Their adventures in trying to get
  back to civilization make an absorbing story.

2. SORAK AND THE CLOUDED TIGER
   _or How the Terrible Ruler of the North Is Hunted and Destroyed_

  A huge clouded tiger, almost human, leads a pack of red dholes into
  Sorak’s country, and it takes all of Sorak’s ingenuity, and the aid of
  his friends to exterminate the pack.

3. SORAK AND THE SULTAN’S ANKUS
   _or How a Perilous Journey Leads to a Kingdom of Giants_

  Sorak and his friends are trapped by a herd of elephants, and finally
  run away with by the leader to an unknown valley where a remnant of
  Cro-Magnon race still exists. Their exciting adventures will hold the
  reader enthralled until the last word.

4. SORAK AND THE TREE-MEN
   _or the Rescue of the Prisoner Queen_

  Captured by a band of Malay slavers, Sorak and his friends are wrecked
  on an island off the coast of Burma in the Mergui Archipelago. Their
  escape from the island with the Prisoner Queen after a successful
  revolution brings the fourth book of this series to an exciting and
  unusual conclusion.

  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

TOP NOTCH DETECTIVE STORIES

By WILLIAM HALL

_Each story complete in itself_

_A new group of detective stories carefully written, with corking
plots; modern, exciting, full of adventure, good police and detective
work._

_Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per
volume._

_Postage 10 cents additional._

1. SLOW VENGEANCE
   _or the Mystery of Pete Shine_

  A young newspaper man, whose brother is on the police force, becomes
  strangely involved in the mysterious killing of an Italian bootblack.
  Suspicion points to a well-known politician but he proves that it was
  impossible for him to have done the deed. Then the reporter, who for a
  time turns detective, gets a clue revolving about a startling, ancient
  method of combat. He follows this up, watches a masked duelist and,
  with the help of a girl, catches the murderer who justifies his deed
  on the plea of Slow Vengeance. You will be interested in reading how
  the reporter got out of a tight corner.

2. GREEN FIRE
   _or Mystery of the Indian Diamond_

  A golf caddy who has a leaning toward amateur detective work, together
  with his younger cousin, are accidentally mixed up in the strange
  loss, or theft, of a valuable diamond, known as Green Fire. It was
  once the eye of an East Indian idol. To clear his young cousin of
  suspicion, the older boy undertakes to solve the mystery which deepens
  when one man disappears and another is found murdered on the golf
  course. But, by a series of clever moves on the part of the young
  sleuth, the crime is solved and the diamond found in a most unusual
  hiding place. A rapidly moving, exciting tale. You will like it.

3. HIDDEN DANGER
   _or The Secret of the Bank Vault_

  A young detective, who, in his private capacity, has solved several
  mysteries, decides to open an office in another city. He meets a young
  bank clerk and they become partners just when the clerk’s bank is
  mysteriously bombed and the cashier is reported missing. It is not
  until next day that it is discovered that the bank vault has been
  entered in some secret manner and a large sum stolen. The regular
  detectives declared “spirits” must have robbed the bank but the two
  young detectives prove that a clever gang did it and also kidnapped
  the aged cashier. Not a dull page from first to last. A clever story.

  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

NORTHWEST STORIES

By LeROY W. SNELL

_A new group of stories laid in the Canadian Northwest by Mr. Snell,
a master writer of the glories and the thrilling adventures of the
Canadian Northwest Mounted Police. Each book is an individual story,
well written, beautifully bound, and contains a story that all boys
will enjoy._

_Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in color. Price 50 cents per
volume._

_Postage 10 cents additional._

1. THE LEAD DISK

  Tom Baley, leaving college goes north into Canada, hoping to join the
  Northwest Mounted Police. His application is turned down by his own
  uncle, an officer on the force, but after many thrilling adventures
  and encounters with the Disk Gang he is able to win the coveted
  uniform.

2. SHADOW PATROL

  Luke Myers is sent into the Caribou Mountains to solve the mystery of
  The Shadow, about whom many conflicting stories are told. There are
  struggles with the outlaws, and finally a great running battle down
  the fog-obscured mountain trails ... at the end of which the outlaws
  are captured and the mystery of The Shadow is solved.

3. THE WOLF CRY

  Donald Pierce is sent to solve the mystery of his father’s
  disappearance, into the unmapped barrens where King Stively weaves his
  web of wickedness, and rules a territory the size of a small empire
  with a ruthlessness and cunning that baffles the best of the Mounted
  Police. Behind all is the dread Wolf Cry which causes brave men to
  shudder....

4. THE SPELL OF THE NORTH

  Sergeant David Stanlaw, stationed at Spirit River, is puzzled by a
  local killing, the disappearance of the body, the finding of a code
  message, and by the mystery of the “Listening Forest,” which casts a
  shadow of dread over the little town of Wiggin’s Creek. With the help
  of Jerry Bartlett they capture the leaders of the gang and solve the
  mystery of the “Listening Forest.”

5. THE CHALLENGE OF THE YUKON

  Robert Wade whose patrol runs from Skagway on Chattam Strait north
  into the Yukon country follows in the wake of a stampede to a new gold
  strike. With the aid of his friend, Jim MacPhail, Wade frustrates the
  outlaws, who try to trap the whole town behind the “Pass of the
  Closing Door,” and then races them to and across the breaking ice
  floes of the Yukon. A strong adventure story all boys will enjoy.

  CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers      New York

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.