So to save the trees as well as his home, he toiled on with dogged persistence, while Casson watched him with feverish, half-wild eyes.
It was a long time coming, but victory came at last. Half of the hut had been torn or burned away and the last smoldering spark had been extinguished.
Tired, his brown skin scorched in a dozen places, the boy flung himself down beside Casson, panting.
“You see,” he said, his bright eyes full of triumph, “Bomba did not let the fire touch the rubber trees.”
Casson looked puzzled.
“Rubber trees?” he repeated vaguely.
“Back there,” said Bomba, with a wave of his hand. “White men want rubber trees. They hunt them with the caboclos. I save some for them.”
There was a boyish elation in his tone that penetrated even Casson’s bewildered senses. He put out a wavering hand to Bomba, and for the first time noticed how badly the boy was burned.
“You will blister,” he said.
Bomba looked down indifferently at his bronzed skin.