Bumpus watched the bushes and trees ahead of the guide’s boat. He was a great fellow to imagine things, and doubtless had many a sudden start when some bird stirred, or a small swamp animal scudded away, each time causing poor nervous Bumpus to imagine that it must be the terrible Jasper who was hidden there, drawing a bead on the most prominent object in the leading canoe behind that of the guide, and which of course meant himself.
But then, try as he would he could not reduce his bulk any more than had already been done; and so he must continue to play the part of “martyr,” serving as a shield to his three more fortunate chums back in the boat.
The guide moderated his pace from time to time. Bumpus wondered at first whether this came from a fear lest he might be running into an ambush cleverly set by the man in hiding; but after watching more carefully he finally realized that he was far from striking the truth when he thought this way.
In fact, these periods of seeming hesitancy were only indulged in when the men on the shore had fallen somewhat behind; and undoubtedly it must be Tom Smith’s plan to allow them an opportunity to come up again, so that the entire company might be close together.
Finally Bumpus noticed that the guide was now heading straight in toward the land, as though he meant to give over the water part of the trip; whereat the fat scout had a thrill of expectancy and joy sweep over him; for once they left the boats it would no longer be necessary for him to stick there in the van, such a conspicuous object, when by rights he felt much more at home in the rear, letting such fire-eaters as Giraffe and Bob White take the lead if they felt so inclined. “Every one to his taste,” was the motto of Bumpus; and as for him he always loudly declared that Nature had not intended him to be a fighter, or else would he have been fashioned on a different model from that of a dumpling.
Yes, now Tom Smith had driven the prow of his clumsy canoe right into the bank, and he was clambering out of the same, showing that there was about to be a positive change in the character of the hunt.
A minute later and Bumpus was able to clamber over the bow of his own boat, and actually reach solid ground. How he drew in a great breath of relief when this became an accomplished fact. After all, give him the touch of good old terra firma—how well he remembered going to the dictionary to find out what those italicized words meant when he first came across them in a story of young plant hunters written by one who used to be a great favorite among the boys several generations past—Captain Mayne Reid, but who is seldom known to the lads of to-day; and ever since that time Bumpus had been prone to spring his knowledge upon his unsuspecting fellow scouts, until they threatened all sorts of dire things unless he changed his tune.
Still the very thought of “solid ground” must always please a fellow built on the order of an elephant, Bumpus told them time and again, as an excuse for his satisfaction. However, he did not dare open his mouth now to say a single word, and had to take it out in sighing, and mentally shaking hands with himself.
Presently they were all gathered there. The boats were drawn up on the bank to be left in charge of a guard, for it would not be very pleasant if they returned later on, to find that some enemy had been there, and either carried their canoes off, or else in some way smashed holes in the bottoms, so that they would be useless for the return trip.
The sheriff, Thad and Tom Smith came together and talked for several minutes in low tones, the rest gathering around, and trying to get in touch with what was being said.