Oliver had already picked up enough Indi to make his request intelligible; but forcing his way into the twisted grass was very trying. There were sudden drops into holes and unexpected scrambles up steep banks; whilst the twisted stalks, interlaced with most luxuriant wild-flowers, presented an impervious wall on either side, diversified by tufts of wild arrowroot and an occasional bramble. Now and then old Gobur paused to point out a porcupine's burrow, or to drag his young companion aside, as a hissing snake wound its green length across the path; whilst the impudent monkeys chattered and screamed as they swung themselves high over Oliver's head, rejoicing in the sudden departure of their more formidable neighbours the great pig family. Bright and beautiful birds peeped at him out of their nests, unscared, with that happy boldness common to all the feathered tribes in India; because no Hindu boy would ever dream of hurting or teasing any living thing. As for old Gobur, he darted about like a monkey, dragging Oliver along with him until they reached a sort of grassy tent in the very centre of the clump. It was the wild-hog's lair, which they love to make in the midst of "thatching-grass," as Gobur called it.
The boy went down on his hands and knees and crept inside.
It was a sort of grassy tent which its hoggish owner had made by cutting down some of the grass with his teeth. One half he had trampled under-foot, and the other half he had heaved aloft with his head, as he walked round and round in a circle, until his grassy cave was complete.
An aspiring porcupine was just disputing with a giant rat which of the two had the better right to this deserted mansion, when Oliver poked in his head. Forthwith the rat, with his twelve-inch length of tail switching from side to side, made a grab at his hair; and the porcupine, bristling with spears, rushed at him. Oliver received the charge on his arm, which he hastily extended to save his face.
Gobur pulled him backwards; but the resolute boy refused to cry out, although the blood was streaming from his elbow to his wrist.
Oliver was wofully crestfallen at this unexpected disaster. There was nothing for it but to retrace his steps.
His silken shirt was torn to shreds, and his hat was left in pawn with the rat. His knees were bruised, with slipping into holes and crawling out again.
Old Gobur began to think it wiser to extricate his unknown companion than to continue a search which he knew to be utterly hopeless. When they got free of the grass at last, it was some small consolation to Oliver to find they had penetrated farther into the thicket than any one else. Mr. Desborough and the major owned themselves baffled, and were now trusting to the sagacity of the dogs.
Poor Oliver's appearance attracted Mr. Desborough's attention.
"Who is that boy?" he asked.