“Yes,” I said, laughing. “I could hear it plainly enough, uncle. What was it made by—some kind of crow?”
“Yes, Nat, some kind of crow.”
“Are they worth trying to shoot, uncle?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said with a peculiar smile; and then, as the cry rang out again, apparently nearer, he signified to Ebo that he should try and guide us in the direction of the sounds.
The black understood him well enough, and taking the lead he went on swiftly through the twilight of the forest, for it was easy walking here beneath the vast trees, where nothing grew but fungi and a few pallid-looking little plants.
And so we went on and on, with the trees seeming to get taller and taller, and of mightier girth. Now and then we caught a glimpse of the blue sky, but only seldom, the dense foliage forming a complete screen.
Every now and then we could hear the hoarse harsh cry; but though we went on and on for a tremendous distance, we seemed to get no nearer, till all at once Ebo stopped short, there was the hoarse cry just overhead, and I saw something sweep through the great branches a hundred and fifty feet away.
I had not time to fire, for my uncle’s gun made the forest echo, though nothing fell.
“I missed it, Nat,” he said, “for the branches were in my way; but I thought I would not let the slightest chance go by.”
“What was it, uncle?” I said.