The filming was shortly interrupted, as the attacked bearers rushed madly up the path, apparently intent upon running from the red ants. Bob and Joe took to their heels with the rest and at last were sufficiently far from the scene to be out of danger. All were panting and perspiring after the short but tiring run.
“Are we rid of them?” inquired Bob. He had not seen a red ant since he had started running.
Noko nodded.
“They gone,” he said, stopping for a moment and facing Bob. “Heap bad. Bites hurt.”
“I shouldn’t imagine it is very pleasant to be bitten by them,” said Joe.
“The natives steer clear of them,” put in Mr. Lewis, as the cavalcade again took up the journey. “Not infrequently red ants invade villages and drive the entire population to some place of refuge. Howard and I have often come upon deserted villages that had been left for that very reason.”
Just before nightfall the party came to a wide stream of muddy water, which wound itself through the dense jungle. From all appearances the stream was very deep.
The chums saw that fifty feet farther along there was a log spanning the creek, probably placed there by natives.
“Wonder if we’ll have to cross that?” mused Joe, looking with distrust at the improvised bridge.