“The Moving Mountain?” repeated Bomba, in bewilderment. He had never heard the term before.
“It is a long way off,” explained Casson. “And it is hard to reach. But I will tell you how to get there. Yes, I know that now. But the other is too far away. That I cannot recall. Through Jojasta is the only way you can find out what you want to know, what you ought to know. You must go.”
How Bomba went there, the fearful perils he met, and the obstacles he surmounted on the way, will be told in the next volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba, the Jungle Boy, at the Moving Mountain; or, The Mystery of the Caves of Fire.”
Casson sank back exhausted, and Bomba knew there was nothing more to be told just then. But what he had heard filled him with hope.
He must tell his friends and let them share his joy. He took his harmonica and strayed off into the jungle, playing a dreamy, plaintive tune.
Soon his jungle friends of the air and treetops were all about him, Kiki, Woowoo, Doto, and scores of others. He smiled at them, talked and played for them. He was in a joyous, exhilarated mood, and they were glad for Bomba’s sake.
“You are all my friends,” he cried. “You helped Bomba when the men with bad hearts came to the cabin. Bomba loves you all. He does not want to leave you, but he must go. He will always think of you, and some day he may come back to you. But Bomba must go. He must find the men who have souls, the souls that are awake. For Bomba has a soul. And he must find the white men. For Bomba is white.”
He tore the puma skin aside and displayed his chest.
“Look, Woowoo! Look, Kiki! Look, Doto!” he cried, in an ecstasy of joy and pride. “Look, all of you! I will tell Polulu, too. I am white! Bomba is white!”
THE END