“Stop a minute, though,” exclaimed Tom Long. “I can’t stand this any more. Here’s something been biting me ever so!”
He made a halt, and began to examine his ankles and legs.
“Why, look here?” he cried; “I’m bleeding like fun!”
Like fun or no, he was certainly bleeding freely, and the cause was not far to seek. In fact, as he turned up the legs of his trousers four bloated little leeches, satiated with their horrid repast, dropped off his skin, and he caught a couple more feasting upon him right royally.
“You should have tied your trousers round your ankles, and put on your boots outside them,” said Ali; “but it won’t hurt you.”
“Won’t hurt!” exclaimed Tom Long, indignantly; “but it does hurt. Why, I’m bleeding horribly.”
At a stream close by, however, his wounds were bathed, the bleeding checked, and then a few shots were had at the jungle-fowl, two brace of which, a little bigger than ordinary bantams, were secured before the little party halted in a clearing close to the river.
Here were half-a-dozen native houses, one and all built upon bamboo piles, so as to raise the dwellers well above the damp ground, the possibility of flood, and out of the reach of any wild creatures that might be wandering by night.
There was something exceedingly homelike in the appearance of the places, each with its scrap of garden and fruit-trees; while the occupant of the principal hut insisted upon the whole party coming to partake of rest and refreshment before continuing their way.
“Oh! we don’t want to go in,” said Tom Long, peevishly.