The reports came from some distance in the forest, and Lathrop, hastily getting his gun and half crazy with anxiety, answered it as soon as he could slip in the cartridges.
What could have happened?
Firing frequently and being answered at closer intervals all the time, Lathrop advanced into the jungle and had not proceeded very far when he encountered a strange figure.
It was Billy Barnes, but a white-faced Billy, his clothes torn by creepers and his face scratched and cut by his wanderings in the jungle. A very different figure from the usual trig one cut by the young reporter.
“Oh, Billy, what has happened?” gasped Lathrop, shocked at his companion’s woe-begone appearance.
The reporter’s reply was sufficiently alarming.
“Ben Stubbs has disappeared!”
“Disappeared?” echoed the amazed Lathrop.
“Yes, as utterly as if the earth had opened and swallowed him,” was the reply, in a strained, tired voice. “I’ve hunted for him all the afternoon and I have not been able to find a trace of him. I got almost cut to ribbons in the sharp-leaved briars or whatever you call them.”
He ruefully regarded his torn hands and ragged clothing.