Chapter Fourteen.
The Hunt continued; one of the Hunters almost concluded. Explorations indulged in, and a Capture effected.
“Dar, massa, dar he is,” exclaimed Quashy, in a hoarse whisper, pointing into the bushes.
“Nonsense, man,” replied Lawrence, in a low voice, “it’s only an ant-hill.”
Even in that moment of excitement, Lawrence could scarce refrain from laughter at the face of his humble follower, for Quashy’s business in life had not accustomed him to much sport at any time; and the prospect of actually assisting at the slaughter of a jaguar or a puma had stirred every nerve and fibre of his black being into intense excitation, so that his eyes and nostrils were dilated to the utmost, and he panted vehemently—with hope, of course, not fear!
Tiger, on the contrary, was cool and calm, though watchful. He paid no attention whatever to his companions, being too well acquainted with his work to stand in need of either advice or assistance from them.
As guide, the savage occupied the bow of the canoe; Lawrence sat in the middle, and Quashy in the stern, for he understood how to steer. Having been admonished to hold his tongue, he crouched so as, if possible, to diminish his size. He also pursed his lips,—and what a tight rounding and projecting of superfluous flesh that pursing was no tongue can adequately tell. He also glared, and this “talking with the eyes” was a mute sermon in itself.
Yet no jaguar could be seen. Silently, with dip of paddle that made no sound, and glide of craft through the water that produced only an oily ripple, they slowly ascended the stream.
At first Lawrence had seized his fowling-piece, which was charged with ball for the occasion; but as time passed, and the Indian showed no intention of landing, he laid the gun down, and again took up his paddle.
After a time, through some inadvertence of Quashy, the canoe was sent rather close in among the reeds and giant leaves of the bank.