Bomba had never before come face to face with a member of the tribe of head-hunters. Only at rare intervals had any of these men of evil omen invaded that section of the jungle where he and Casson lived.
But when they had come they had left behind them a wake of death and destruction. They were cruel and ruthless. They sought for heads as the North American Indians used to seek for scalps with which to adorn their wigwams and testify to their valor.
One of these dreadful trophies hung at the belt of the Indian who now stood regarding Bomba with a scowl that sent a chill to the boy’s heart.
But Bomba let no sign of apprehension show itself on his face, which had been schooled to repression and self-control by his jungle experiences.
On the contrary he smiled amicably and put up his hands, palms outward, as a sign of peace and good will.
“Good hunting, brother?” he asked, in the language that with certain variations was common to all the tribes of the region and with which he was perfectly familiar.
“Ugh!” the Indian grunted noncommittally, as he scanned Bomba with glowering eyes that had in them nothing of friendliness. “You white boy?”
“Yes,” replied Bomba.
“You live with white man that has long hair and walks with a stick?” pursued the Indian.
Bomba nodded.