On the other hand, if he went forward on this trail he might come to water. Already his throat was parched, his tongue swollen. Then, too, a small stream meant a certain amount of protection and a possible fire. He had matches in his pocket, a small box of them. As he thought of these he wrapped them in his handkerchief for safer keeping.
Then of a sudden a more terrible realization came to him. Not only was he in a tropical jungle, but he was lost.
“Lost!” he whispered in an awed tone.
“Lost!” “Lost!” the strange rustle of palms seemed to answer back.
It was true, must be true. Hardgrave, who had spent years in the jungle, had warned him: “Don’t ever dare to enter that jungle without a guide, not to go even a few rods. If you do, you’re lost.”
“Rods,” Johnny repeated, “I’ve gone miles!”
As he thought of it now, he realized that he must have crossed scores of these low, criss-crossings paths. Should he will to attempt it, he could not in a thousand days find his way back to Daego’s clearing over that dry sponge-like patch.
“Nor any other place,” he told himself. “I’m lost! Lost!”
At first the thought left him so weak that he could not move. But in time strength and courage came flooding back. He was young, strong, resourceful. There was a way out. He would find it. Daego was doubtless at this moment sitting in his cabin smoking cigarets and contemplating the day when he would move across the river and take charge of Johnny’s deserted camp.
“That will never be!” Johnny told himself, setting his teeth hard.