He called frantically to Goncalves, called to him to wait, Joaquim said. But as Hal had already aimed another bullet at the Brazilian’s sleek head, there was no apparent slowing up of the canoe for anything or anybody. Consequently, Pizella dove into the high water, clothes and all.
Hal tried another shot but the darkness and the swiftly moving canoe made a sure aim impossible. He thought he heard Goncalves scream after a fourth shot had been fired, but as Pizella was screaming also, they could not be certain. Be that as it may, the Brazilian kept right on paddling and was soon out of sight.
Pizella was in a dilemma, to be sure. He could not hope to reach his master’s canoe and he was afraid to return toward shore, where goodness knows what horrible fate awaited him. Hal felt almost sorry for him in that moment, for Goncalves’ desertion of the half-caste at such a time and in such a place seemed heartless.
But Pizella seemed to have chosen the lesser of two evils and turning his back upon the raging current began to swim toward shore. Hal and Joaquim watched him, interested, each thinking that the man was braver than his master ever dared to be.
In the midst of these reflections, they heard him suddenly shriek, a blood-curdling yelp. He was by that time, too, near enough in to stand on his feet, which he did. But even as they watched him they saw him raise his arms and sort of stiffen from head to foot. The next second he had plunged headfirst back into the stream.
“Electric fish, Señor—he bite Pizella!” Joaquim shouted.
Hal got to his feet ready to jump in after the half-caste, but the Indian put out a detaining arm and pointed to the dark waters.
“Already he sink,” said Joaquim. “Señor no can find now.”
Hal looked, feeling not a little dazed by the episode and saw that it was true. The water rushing along on its heedless course had carried the half-caste completely out of sight. There was not a sign of him.
“Joaquim say right—no?” said the Indian.