“Bows–arrows–and did you not agree that they would make knives?”
“Umph–we’ll see. What is it, Miss Jenny?”
“Isn’t that a hole in the big tree?”
“Looks like it. These baobabs are often hollow.”
“Perhaps that is where the leopard had his den,” added Winthrope.
“Shouldn’t wonder. We’ll go and see.”
“But, Mr. Blake,” protested the girl, “may there not be other leopards?”
“Might have been; but I’ll bet they lit out with the other. Look how the tree is scorched. Must have been stacks of dry brush around the hole, ’nough to smoke out a fireman. We’ll look and see if they left any soup bones lying around. First, though, here’s your drink, Miss Jenny.”
As he spoke, Blake kicked aside some smouldering branches, and led the way to the crevice whence the spring trickled from the rock into a shallow stone basin. When all had drunk their fill of the clear cool water, Blake took up his club and walked straight across to the baobab. Less than thirty steps brought him to the narrow opening in the trunk of the huge tree. At first he could make out nothing in the dimly lit interior; but the fetid, catty odor was enough to convince him that he had found the leopards’ den.
He caught the vague outlines of a long body, crouched five or six yards away, on the far side of the hollow. He sprang back, his club brandished to strike. But the expected attack did not follow. Blake glanced about as though considering the advisability of a retreat. Winthrope and Miss Leslie were staring at him, white-faced. The sight of their terror seemed to spur him to dare-devil bravado; though his actions may rather have been due to the fact that he realized the futility of flight, and so rose to the requirements of the situation–the grim need to stand and face the danger.