"That's all, there," announced Burt. "All that's about the time he cleaned up on the Arab caravan, eh? Let's see—there's five pages where everything's mussed up."
"Looks like blood," laughed Critch, "but it ain't. That's the red stuff the dwarfs use to stain their things with. See here, on this spear-shaft. There's a lot comes next that he wrote after he set up in Pongo's place—it was his left arm that was hurt, so he could write all right. But you can't make out more'n a few scattered words. Turn to the last page that's written on. There's where the big thing is."
Burt obeyed, turning over the pages rapidly. Most of the writing had been obliterated or stained over, but although the final page was half torn away, the remaining words were clear and legible.
"'Dec. 16th. Impossible to carry off the stuff. Must slip away while out hunting if possible. Not much hope. River runs northwest. May find Arabs or English traders to the east or north. Will find from Mbopo whether—'
"And that's all," announced Burt, looking puzzled. "I don't see what you mean by sayin' there's anything big there, though."
"Read it over again," suggested Critch with a grin. Burt did so, and once more glanced up with a wondering look.
"You got me, Critch. What are you getting at, anyhow?"
"Don't you see?" cried his chum excitedly. "That part about the river running northwest!"
"Well, what about it?" demanded Burt.
"Why, which way does the Makua run?"