Gyp uttered a whine—that dog had been so well trained that he rarely barked—ran quickly up the further bank of the rivulet; Jimmy trotted after him, waddy in hand; the doctor went next, I followed, and Ti-hi brought up the rear.
One minute the stars were shining brightly over us, the next we were under the great forest trees, and the darkness was intense.
“Keep close to me, my lad,” the doctor whispered; and I followed him by the ear more than by the eye; but somehow the task grew easier as we went on, and I did not once come in contact with a tree.
By the way Gyp took us I don’t suppose it was more than six miles to the savages’ village; and though we naturally went rather slowly, the excitement I felt was so great that it seemed a very little while before Jimmy stopped short to listen.
“Hear um talkum talkum,” he whispered.
We could neither of us hear a sound, but I had great faith in Jimmy’s hearing, for in old times he had given me some remarkable instances of the acuteness of this sense.
“Jimmy go first see!” he whispered; and the next minute we knew that we were alone with Ti-hi, Jimmy and the dog having gone on to scout.
“I detest having to depend upon a savage!” muttered the doctor; “it seems so degrading to a civilised man.”
“But they hear and see better than we do.”
“Yes,” he said; “it is so.”