Bomba’s heart beat faster, his breath seemed almost to whistle through his clenched teeth.
The odds were fearful ones—thirty to two at least, really thirty to one, for Casson could not be relied on in his half-demented state, and whatever fighting was done would probably have to be done by Bomba.
The jungle boy thought quickly. Force alone would not avail. He must use strategy, even as he had used it in the case of the cooanaradi.
But what and how? He racked his agonized brain, seizing at some expedient only to dismiss it the next moment as futile. And every instant he expected to hear the bloodcurdling war whoop of the savages as they rushed the cabin.
Then like a flash it came to him!
With incredible swiftness, still on hands and knees, he made his way to a hollow tree. This had been his playroom since his earliest childhood, and in its trunk Bomba had stored many of his treasures.
Chief among these was the skin of a great anaconda, slain by Casson many years ago. It had had a great fascination for Bomba, and many a time he had arrayed himself in it, dragging its great length behind him. Often he had used it to scare playfully his friends of the jungle.
The monkeys and parrots had fled in dismay, and when Bomba had cast it aside had returned timidly and looked at him reproachfully for having played a practical joke upon them. Polulu had bared his teeth when he first saw it, and had sheepishly abandoned his hostile attitude when Bomba had emerged and laughed at him.
Now it was to serve for something sterner than play. Bomba’s face was grim as he got into the great skin and wrapped the front part of it about his head and shoulders.
The dried head, with the great jaws gaping, had been retained in its entirety, and Bomba held this before his face as he prepared to emerge from his hiding place. The horrible object was one calculated to strike terror to the stoutest heart.