“You’ll see better by and by,” replied his comrade.
“I had need ter, Rowl, or I’ll butt my brainpan agin one of these hyur saplin’s. Wagh! I cudn’t sight a b’ar, if we were to scare him up jest now.”
About five miles farther on we reached a small stream. The storm had abated, but the stream was swollen with the rain, and we could not cross it. We were now a safe distance from our pursuers—at least, we thought so—and we resolved to “pitch our camp” upon the bank.
This was a simple operation, and consisted in pitching ourselves to the ground under the shade of a spreading tree.
Raoul, who was a tireless spirit, kindled a fire, and commenced knocking down the nuts of the corozo palm, that hung in clusters over our heads. We dried our wet garments, and Lincoln set about dressing our numerous wounds. In this surgical process our shirts suffered severely; but the skill of the hunter soothed our swelling limbs, and after a frugal dinner upon palm-nuts and pitahayas we stretched ourselves along the greensward, and were soon asleep.
I was in that dreamy state, half-sleeping half-waking, when I was aroused by a strange noise that sounded like a multitude of voices—the voices of children. Raising my head I perceived the hunter in an attitude of listening.
“What is it, Bob?” I inquired.
“Dod rot me if I kin tell, Cap’n! Hyur, Rowl! what’s all this hyur channerin?”
“It’s the araguatoes,” muttered the Frenchman, half-asleep.
“Harry-gwaters! an what i’ the name o’ Nick’s them? Talk plain lingo, Rowl. What are they?”