“The next thing, then,” continued Don, “is to find this path Jack speaks of. 'Twould take us two good hours at least to go round by way of the creek. Do you know, I've a notion the path to the spring is the one we want. Suppose we try it?”
The captain making no demur, Don caught up a musket and led the way to the spring. This spring was Spottie's discovery. It lay to the left of the creek path, about fifty yards down the hillside. The jungle had almost obliterated the path by which it was approached, but this the black had in some degree remedied by a vigorous use of the axe during the day, and, as Puggles had intimated, he was now at the spring, replenishing the water bucket.
Hardly had Don and the captain got fairly into the path when there rose from the depths of the jungle immediately below them a series of frantic yells. The voice was undoubtedly Spottie's, and, judging from the manner in which he used it, Sputtie stood—or believed he stood—in sore need of assistance. Quickening his pace to a run, Don soon came upon him, making for the open, minus bucket and turban, his eyes protruding from their sockets, and altogether in a terrible state of fright.
“What's the matter?” cried Don, catching him by the arm and shaking him until he was fain to cease his bellowing.
“De t-t-tiger-witch, sa'b!” said Spottie, his teeth chattering. “Me done see um, sa'b!”
Just then the captain came up.
“He's seen a monkey or something, and thinks it's the tiger-witch,” explained Don, laughing at the poor fellows piteous face. “Whereabouts is it, Spottie?”
Spottie pointed fearfully down the shadowy pathway, where a faint snapping of twigs could be heard in the underbrush.
“Blow me!” said the captain, after listening intently a moment, “yon warmint bain't no monkey, lad. So let's lay alongside an' diskiver what quarter o' the animile kingdom he hails from, says you.”
And with that he started off in the direction of the sound.