“Come,” he said, and they silently followed him to a little distance, pausing near the foot of the nearer tree that completed the bridge over the jungle.
“Here he is,” said the Spaniard.
“Where?” asked Stark.
“At your feet.” But they could see nothing.
Stark struck a match, sheltering it with his hollowed hands, as he cast the light downward. Hogan breathed forth an exclamation that betrayed the agitated state of his nerves.
For the flickering light fell on the pale face of Chester Arlington, who lay stretched on his back where he had fallen when struck down by the club in the hands of Miguel Bunol. Arlington’s eyes were closed, and near his left temple something red trickled down from his hair.
“Good heavens!” gasped Hogan, as he dropped on his knees. “Why, this is carrying the thing too far! I’m afraid he’s badly hurt!”
Crauthers said nothing, for in his heart there was a mingled sensation of satisfaction and fear.
“What in blazes have you done, Bunol?” demanded Stark, who was likewise alarmed.
“I soak him!” said the Spaniard. “That was what you say for me to do. I do it!”