Bomba gave a cry of delight as his hand once more closed on the haft of his faithful machete.
“Good Doto!” he exclaimed. “Bomba has his big knife. All is well again.”
The task of cutting away the imprisoning branches was a laborious one, flat upon his back as he was and having only the use of his left hand.
But it was the faithful Doto who lifted the boy’s head from the ooze and supported his shoulder so that he could do the work more easily.
Gradually the bonds across his chest relaxed their grip. Doto raised him higher and higher until he had reached a sitting position. Then the work went on apace.
Bomba tried to move his right arm but found that there was still no feeling in it. He did not spend any time over it, but went on hacking away with his left hand.
He grew tired and paused at times to rest, but it was always Doto that urged him on to fresh effort. That the monkey scented danger, Bomba knew, and yet, listen as he would, he could hear no sound that had menace in it.
Still he trusted the instinct of the monkey. The ears of Bomba were keen, but those of Doto were keener still.
So he forced himself to labor when his muscles were crying out urgently for rest. Gradually the weight upon his legs lifted. He found that he could move one of them, then the other.
“Bomba thinks he can get out now, if Doto will help,” said the lad.