Bomba had been so exhausted from his exertions of the day before that the bat’s task had been easy, and it had been able to prey on him for a long time undisturbed.
In a flash Bomba knew what had happened to him. This, then, was the reason for that strange numbed feeling in his legs. Much of his blood must have passed from him to the vampire to render him so weak.
The bat was still at his feet, draining him of the vital fluid, flapping, flapping those terrible wings with a lulling motion.
A wild fury assailed Bomba, rage at his own impotence.
With a tremendous effort, he raised himself to a sitting posture and moved his half-paralyzed legs.
The vampire left its perch on Bomba’s foot and flapped into the air a short distance, its vicious, beady eyes fastened malignantly on the boy’s face. Bomba knew that the terrible creature, with the cunning instinct of its kind, was aware of his weakness, and would not easily be frightened off.
At the same moment there was another cry from Casson, and two other sinister shapes flapped their way into the half-ruined hut.
Bomba gave a hoarse cry, staggered to his feet and reached for the heavy club that he always kept close by his side when he slept. With the other hand he grasped his machete and turned grimly to face the invaders.
But even as he turned, he staggered and almost fell. He was horribly weak. He could hardly hold the weapons. It was a gigantic effort even to lift them above his head.
He called to Casson, hoping for some help from the old man. But the aged naturalist was sitting upright on his improvised couch of boughs and palm leaves, and his eyes were fixed with the bewildered, half-fascinated look of a frightened child upon the horrible winged intruders.