“Robin Hood had nothing on him!” declared Dorn.
“Who was he?” asked Bomba. “And why did he have nothing on him?” as he glanced at the well-clothed forms of the white men.
“I can see that we’ll have to cut out slang,” laughed Dorn. “Robin Hood was a great shot with the bow and arrow, and what I meant to say was that you could shoot as straight as he could.”
Bomba’s heart swelled with pride at the approbation of the white men. It seemed to him the sweetest music he had ever heard.
Dusk was drawing on now, and the forest began to waken. From the lairs in which they had lain during the heat of the day wild beasts rose, yawned, stretched themselves, and then stalked out on their nocturnal search for prey. Death was abroad.
Two or three times, as Bomba sat by the tent of his new-made friends, he raised his head and sniffed the air.
“What is it?” asked Gillis curiously, after the third repetition.
“Jaguars,” answered Bomba.
The men grasped their rifles and peered into the darkening forest surrounding them.
“I don’t see any,” remarked Gillis, after a moment.