By the evening of the next day, he figured, he would reach the river bank. Then he would make his raft and launch himself into the unknown. The strong current of the river would carry him along to Jaguar Island.
To what else? To the knowledge that he craved? Or to death?
If the former, he would be supremely happy. If the latter—well, Bomba had known how to live. He would know how to die.
As the shades of night were drawing on he came to an old ramshackle native hut, long since abandoned. There was no door. Only the four walls were standing, and they were bending crazily.
Even at that, however, it offered more protection than that to which the lad had been accustomed. He could build a big fire before the door of the hut. That would protect him on one side, and the walls would shelter him on the other three sides from the incursions of serpents and wild beasts.
He had had a hard, exhausting day and was very tired. He built his fire, brought water from a little stream near at hand, made a native tea from bitter leaves he gathered and feasted heartily upon the tapir meat, of which he had yet a considerable store on hand.
Then he lay down to sleep on the earthen floor of the hut. His tired eyes closed almost instantly.
How long he slept he did not know. But he was awakened at last by a queer sensation, as though he were rocking up and down in a canoe.
His first thought was of earthquake. It was a common enough occurrence in that district, which had once abounded in volcanoes, most of them now extinct.
But there was no roar or rumbling, such as usually accompanied a quake. There was no sound save the usual buzz and hum of the jungle.