“Keep a sharp look-out, Mas’r Harry,” whispered Tom, as a rustling amongst the bushes and swamp-loving grass told of something rapidly retreating towards the river.
Then once more the trail turned off, and it was plain enough to see that it was now pointing right for the thick reed and cane-brake where we had slain the jaguar; and my heart told me plainly enough that, if this track had been made by some one dragging my uncle’s body, it was in order to dispose of it in the great reptile-haunted stream.
There was a strangely strong inclination to stay back and leave Tom to finish the adventure, but with an effort I crushed it down; and now, close abreast, we crept on, pushing the reeds and canes aside as we entered the brake, sinking to our knees at every stride, and feeling to our horror that the ooze beneath our feet was alive with little reptiles.
“Make haste, Tom!” I cried, shuddering in spite of my efforts to drive away the tremor I felt.
Tom responded to my words, and we were pushing and forcing our way on, when the horror that was oppressing me would have its way, and—be it boyish, unmanly, what you will—I gave vent to a cry, torn from me by the extreme dread I felt as my further progress was stayed by something invisible to me amongst the thick reeds, suddenly seizing me by the leg.
Chapter Forty.
My Uncle’s Adventure.
“Let me get a shot at him, Mas’r Harry!” cried Tom excitedly. “Hold up—don’t go down, whatever you do. It’s one of them great beasts—I know it is. There’s thousands of ’em here.”