“No, no!” cried Bomba. “Look at me. Try to remember.”
She stared at him long and hard.
“If you are not Bartow nor Bartow’s ghost, you are his son,” she declared. “Andrew Bartow and Laura—yes, her name was Laura—had a son who was named Bonny. She used to sing to him like this—” and again she crooned the tender cradle song that had stirred Bomba so strangely.
She relapsed into meditation, still humming that haunting song.
“Yes,” prompted Bomba eagerly. “Where are Bartow and Laura now? And Bonny——”
“Bonny!” she repeated. “Oh, yes, Bonny was stolen. He was stolen from home by—by—Japazy! That was his name—a half-breed. Japazy hated Bartow and hated Casson, too. I do not know why he hated them. And then—and then—oh, I cannot remember! But ask Japazy—he will know. Look for Japazy on Jaguar Island above the cataract.”
Her voice died away in disjointed mutterings, and from neither her nor Casson could he get anything clearer that evening nor in the days that followed.
The boy was desperate. It seemed that the half-demented man and woman could get no further. Bomba had got merely a clue.
But that in itself was something. How Bomba followed it up and what exciting perils and adventures he met in fulfilling his task will be told in the next volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy on Jaguar Island; or, Adrift on the River of Mystery.”
From the pain and disappointment in his heart Bomba sought relief with his wild friends of the forest. They could always sympathize with his mood and in some degree understand it. To them he talked, and they chattered in reply. And his sore heart was eased in their companionship.