He found it in the center of a dense thorn thicket, into which he penetrated slowly and with great care, pushing the thorny stalks aside so that they would not wound his flesh. Once in the center, he beat down enough of the brush to serve him as a bed, and covered it with bunches of soft moss that he had gathered near the river’s edge.
Here he was safe. Even if his scent betrayed him, no wild beast was likely to venture through the thorns. And if, perchance, some prowling brute, more daring or hungry than the rest, should try it, the noise made would awaken the boy at once and he could trust to his weapons for the rest.
As he lay there, waiting for sleep to come, his thoughts were tinctured somewhat with bitterness. Why should his life be in constant peril? Why should he be doomed to be hunted by beast and reptile?
It was not as though he were a native of the jungle. Then he might have accepted his lot as the decree of fate and borne whatever came to him with stolidity, if not with resignation.
But his real place was not there. He was white. He was heir to all the instincts, traditions and ambitions of his race. He belonged elsewhere. Then why was he here? Why were his aspirations and longings doomed to be thwarted? What had he done to deserve such a fate?
His thoughts turned to Frank Parkhurst. What a difference there was between their lots! No doubt by this time Frank had reached one of the cities he had talked about and whose wonders had so deeply stirred the jungle boy. To-night Frank would be sleeping safely in a soft bed. He would have abundance of good food. He would be laughing and talking with others of his kind. And his mother, the woman with the golden hair, would print a good-night kiss upon his lips.
But Bomba had no mother near him to kiss him good-night. He had no friends to talk to, to clap on the shoulder in jovial fashion, as Gillis had done to Dorn. Monkeys and parrots were his only intimates, except poor demented Casson and the squaw, Pipina.
As to laughter—when had Bomba last laughed? He could not remember.
In this melancholy mood he at last fell asleep.
But his depression vanished when he awoke the next morning. His sleep had been undisturbed. Weariness had departed. The current of his blood ran swiftly through his young veins. The skies were azure. It was good to be alive.