But there was no cactus in the immediate vicinity, and this denial of his need only served to make his thirst more intense.
He knew that at a little distance from the line he was traversing there was a water hole, fed by subterranean springs that never ran dry. More than once he had slaked his thirst at this.
He turned now and headed in that direction. He was parched with a terrible thirst that only dwellers in the jungle or the desert can know.
He had left the trail to take a short cut to the water hole, for he knew the regular trail used by the jungle beasts was still some distance ahead.
Suddenly he paused, his machete with which he had been hewing his way, raised. He held himself rigidly motionless. What was that he had heard?
It was the slithering of a snake through the underbrush, but a snake that, disturbed, was gliding away from the intruding boy.
He was fast nearing the water hole. He quickened his steps, licking his dry lips with his parched tongue. A few minutes more and his eyes would be gladdened by the sight of the pool, its mirror-like surface reflecting back the heavy foliage and the waving crest of palms that grew close at its edge. What great draughts of that cooling water he would drink! How he would revel in its plenty!
But even the terrible thirst that tormented Bomba could not rob him of his caution. He knew that the creatures of the jungle resorted there. So with extreme care he advanced toward the fringe of trees that still hid the water hole from view.
Silently he parted the bushes and looked through.
What he saw there caused him to grind his teeth with rage. A deep growl formed in his arid throat. For that moment Bomba was all primitive.