Tom sighed and shook his head. "You can go on, but you'll have to leave me behind. I couldn't walk a hundred yards for a barrel of gold."
"Oh, we can't think of leaving you behind!" cried Sam.
"I'll tell you wot—Ise dun carry him, at least fe a spell," said Aleck, and so it was arranged.
Under the new order of things Cujo insisted on making a scouting tour first, that he might strike the trail before carrying them off on a circuitous route, thus tiring Aleck out before the real tracking began.
The African departed, to be gone the best Part of an hour. When he came back there was a broad grin of satisfaction on his homely features.
"Cujo got a chicken," he announced, producing the fowl. "And here am some werry good roots, too. Now va dinner befo' we start out."
"Right yo' am, Cujo!" cried Pop, and began to start up a fire without delay, while Cujo cleaned the fowl and mashed up the roots, which, when baked on a hot stone, tasted very much like sweet potatoes. The meal was enjoyed by all, even Tom eating his full share in spite of his swollen ankle, which was now gradually resuming its normal condition.
Cujo had found the trail at a distance of an eighth of a mile above the wayside hostelry. "Him don't lead to de ribber dare," he said. "But I dun think somet'ing of him."
"And what do you think?" asked Tom, from his seat on Aleck's back.
"I t'ink he go to de kolobo."