It was a long journey, but his powerful arms sent the canoe whizzing along at a great pace. The current was with him, and he knew that, barring accidents, he would reach the hut of Pipina before dark.
But “accidents,” he had come to learn, were almost daily occurrences in the jungle, and he did not abate a jot of his vigilance, his keen eyes keeping on the lookout everywhere—at the water for snags or alligators, at either shore for animal or human enemies, on the trees that overhung the stream for lurking anacondas.
But though always on the alert, his subconscious mind was busy with thoughts of his recent journey and of that which was to come. Would the latter be more satisfactory than the former? Would Sobrinini complete the story regarding the mystery of his parentage that Jojasta had left so incomplete?
Who was Sobrinini? What did she know? And even if she did know, what would she tell?
Did Casson know her? Would the mention of her name unlock the door of his memory, that door that he had tried so desperately but fruitlessly to open?
But here Bomba’s questioning stopped as the thought came to him that perhaps there would be no Casson to tell him anything. The old naturalist had been so weak and frail when he had left him! His hold on life had been so slender! Perhaps the thread had already snapped.
The thought was an agonizing one to Bomba, and spurred him to such efforts that the paddle swept in a wide semicircle as he propelled his slight craft through the water.
At such a rate of speed did he travel that long before he had expected he found himself in the vicinity of his goal.
When he realized that Pipina’s cabin lay beyond a turn of the river just ahead, Bomba slackened speed. His habitual caution, bred of long years in the jungle, asserted itself. He wanted to inspect the cabin before approaching it.
So, despite his impatience, he rested from his paddling and let the craft drift with the current until he rounded the bend.