All that day he flogged himself along with this thought, stopping only to tear off and eat a strip of the tapir meat that he had brought with him from the village of Hondura.
Bomba could not go without food, but he could go without sleep, or at least do with very little.
But exhausted nature took its toll after he had traveled through the long hours of the night and faced a gray-streaked dawn, spent and haggard-eyed.
Sleep weighted his eyelids, dragged at his feet. Bomba lay down and slept.
In his sleep he dreamed. It was a terrible dream, and in it he was back again in the heart of the Moving Mountain. Flames licked at him hungrily, strange grumblings and roarings resounded about him, and yet he could make no move to escape.
With a mighty gasping effort, Bomba heaved his body beyond the reach of the fire—and opened his eyes!
Instantly he was wide awake. Night had crept upon him while he slept, and now upon the wings of darkness rode a fearful storm filling the jungle with wailings and thunderings.
Bomba leaped to his feet and looked about him.
“I have slept the day away!” was his first angry thought. “If Bomba does not find Japazy it will be his own fault!”
But this consideration was soon swept aside by the realization of his own immediate peril.