The white rubber hunters caught sight of him at intervals during his course, and watched his progress with bated breath.
“What on earth do you suppose the boy is doing?” asked Dorn.
“Looks as though he were weaving some magic charm out there,” muttered Gillis. “Something perhaps that he has learned from the witch doctors of the region. It’s making me creepy! It’s uncanny!”
The men were immensely relieved when Bomba at last emerged from the shadows, put down his empty pail, and seated himself on a stump near them.
“What have you been doing?” asked Gillis.
Bomba picked up the pail.
“Feel,” he said, pointing to the interior.
Gillis put his finger on the bottom of the pail, and when he withdrew it, it was covered with a pale, yellow, sticky substance. It felt uncomfortable, and he tried to rub it off with a bit of cloth. But this he found was almost impossible.
“Sticks closer than a brother,” he muttered. “What is it and where did you get it?”
“From the tree,” replied Bomba. “I stuck my knife in the tree and hurt it. The tree wept. These are the tears of the tree.”