“Quick, Harvey! Give me the pick! Catch that, old man!” he called, pushing the iron arms into the opening. A pressure was felt and a hoarse voice replied:—
“That’ll help. I can crawl up the side that slopes.”
The next minute Hope-Jones was with them again, blowing dirt from his mouth and saying unpleasant things about the animal that had dug the hole at the path side. His ears were filled with loam, black earth had sifted back of his shirt collar, and such hair as projected beneath his cap was tangled with the soil. As for his clothing, it was streaked. Fortunately, his shot-gun, knapsack, and pick remained fastened to his back, and although dirty, he was none the loser because of his drop below the surface. Ferguson and Harvey brushed him off as best they could, then the three resumed their way up the hill.
“I didn’t see any hole,” remarked the Englishman, a few minutes later.
“It was at the side of the path; most of it in the jungle, and leaves had fallen over the edge,” Ferguson replied.
“Mr. Hope-Jones?”
“Yes, Harvey.”
“Will you cry quits on the puma cub?”
“Certainly, my lad.”
“Hope-Jones!”