This information was for the benefit of Max. To tell Edward Harden such things would be like giving minute instructions to a fish concerning the rudiments of swimming.
Max, obeying Crouch's orders, broke into the jungle on the left, whereas Edward moved to the right. Keeping abreast of one another, they moved forward for a distance of about two hundred yards. This time it was Harden who ordered the party to halt. They heard his quiet voice in the midst of the thickets: "Crouch, come here; I want you."
A moment later Max joined his two friends. He found them standing side by side: Edward, with eyes turned upward like one who listens, and Crouch with an ear to the ground. Harden, by placing a finger upon his lips, signed to his nephew to be silent. Max also strained his ears to catch the slight sound in the jungle which had aroused the suspicion of these experienced hunters.
After a while he heard a faint snap, followed by another, and then a third. Then there was a twanging sound, very soft, like the noise of a fiddle-string when thrummed by a finger. It was followed almost immediately by a shriek, as terrible and unearthly as anything that Max had ever heard. It was the dying scream of a wounded beast--one of the great tribe of cats.
Crouch got to his feet.
"Fans," said he. "What's more, they've got my leopard."
He made the remark in the same manner as a Londoner might point out a Putney 'bus; yet, at that time, the Fans were one of the most warlike of the cannibal tribes of Central Africa. They were reputed to be extremely hostile to Europeans, and that was about all that was known concerning them.
Edward Harden was fully as calm as his friend.
"We can't get back," said he. "It's either a palaver, or a fight."
"Come, then," said Crouch. "Let's see which it is."