“In agony, my boy. I’m afraid we have been jumping at conclusions. Perhaps the Indians do not understand, after all.”
Sleep came at last, though, and the next day nothing else could be thought of or talked of. The Indians were questioned in dumb show, with the skin of the trogon for a text, and we got on more, Uncle Dick’s spirits rising as it grew more plainly that the Indian fully understood about the birds we wanted. In fact, in dumb show he at last began to teach us the bird’s habits.
He showed us how it sat upon the branch of a tree, taking a parroquet as an example, pointing out that the bird we meant had toes like it, two before and two behind, setting it on a piece of wood, and then ruffling its plumage all up till it looked like a ball of feathers.
“That’s right, Nat,” cried my uncle. “Exactly how trogons sit. The fellow’s a born observer. I am glad you shot him. Go on, Dusky.”
The man understood, as he sat holding the piece of branch in one hand, the bird in the other. He glanced at us to see if we were watching him, and then smoothing the feathers quickly, he began to buzz and whirr like a beetle, as cleverly as a ventriloquist. Next he made the dead bird he held dart from its perch, and imitated the quick flight of one chasing a large beetle through the air, catching it, and returning to its perch, where with wonderful accuracy he went through the movements of it swallowing its prey, and then ruffling itself up again into a ball of feathers.
“Splendid!” cried my uncle. “Exact. He knows the right birds, Nat. Now then, Cuvier, where is the happy spot? Over yonder?” and my uncle pointed up the river; but the Indian shook his head, and pointed across and away to the south, after which he laid his head upon his hand and imitated going to sleep eight times.
“Eight days’ journey to the south, Nat,” said Uncle Dick. “A long way to carry him. I understand,” he said, turning to the Indian again, shouldering his gun, bending down, and making believe to walk; but his patient shook his head violently, took hold of his piece of wood, and went through the motion of paddling.
“Hah!” I cried, imitating him. “He means we should have to go in a canoe, uncle.”
“That’s it,” he cried, and he pointed down at the river; but the man shook his head again, and pointed right across into the distance.
“Nat,” said my uncle, “we shall do it yet. It must be on that river we passed before we turned up this. We shall have to get him down to the boat.”