“All right for a beginner,” commented Gillis. “With your natural keenness of eye you’ll be a crack shot as soon as you get used to the gun and have a little more practice. I only wish we had more time to teach you. But Casson will give you lessons, and in a little while you can shoot as straight with this as you can with your bow.”
Many boxes of cartridges accompanied the gift, and Bomba tucked them away carefully in his pouch, feeling as rich as Croesus. It had certainly been a lucky day for him when he had come across the white men!
But his delight in his treasure was dimmed when, a little while later, all preparations were completed and the party got ready to move.
The rubber hunters themselves, steeled adventurers as they were, were deeply stirred as they shook hands with Bomba and bade him good-bye. They had become strongly attached to this lad, who had come upon them so strangely, and to whom, no doubt, they owed their lives. There was tragic pathos in his loneliness in these vast wilds with only a half-demented old man to bear him company.
“You’ll hear from us again, remember that,” promised Gillis. “We’re not going to let this thing drop. We will come back or send back for you.”
“I hope so,” said Bomba. “If you do not come, my name will be mud.”
The men could not help smiling, and Bomba was proud. He was showing them that he could talk like the white men.
They waved a final farewell and took up their journey through the jungle. Bomba watched them until the underbrush hid them from view.
The world suddenly became very empty. His eyes were filled with tears.
He stood there for a long time, trying to still the ache in his heart. Then he turned his face toward the south. He must get back to Casson.