“By Jove!” exclaimed Dorn, “the boy’s a poet.”
“Right enough,” agreed Gillis. “What he means, of course, is that he tapped the tree and got this gum-like sap from it. But why did you do it and what have you done with most of the sap?” he asked, addressing himself to Bomba.
“I spilled it on the leaves all around the camp,” said Bomba. “It is good for us and bad for the jaguars.”
The men looked at each other in perplexity.
“Can you make out what he’s getting at?” asked Dorn of his companion.
“Not in the least,” replied Gillis. “It’s all Greek to me. How is it bad for the jaguars?” he asked Bomba.
“The jaguars step on it,” explained Bomba. “The leaves stick to their feet. They try to shake them off. But the leaves stick. Then they try to rub them off with their heads. The leaves stick to their heads. The gum gets in their eyes. It is bitter. It makes them blind. They get frightened. They cannot see where they are going. They forget all about the white man and the meat. They cry. They run. That is all.”
The men looked at each other, struck dumb with amazement.
“That is all!” exclaimed Gillis, when he had recovered his breath. “By ginger, it’s enough!”
“I should say it was,” agreed Dorn. “Boy, I take off my hat to you.”