Bomba groaned. Lifting the machete with a tremendous effort—he had already discarded the club, finding the weight of both weapons too much for him—he made a feeble advance upon the enemy.
There was a whirring of wings, and the hideous creatures swooped down on him in a black, loathsome cloud.
Bomba gave way before the fury of the onslaught, striking at them with the machete, while with the other arm he shielded his face from the batting of those merciless wings.
Sensing his weakness, the bats became more bold and vicious. They pressed upon him, striking him about the head and body. There was a sharp pain in the arm that shielded his face, and Bomba felt a trickle of blood run slowly down to his finger tips.
He lowered the shielding arm and shook the blood from his fingers. He wielded the machete again, and this time found a mark. But the blow was weak, and far from seriously injuring his foe seemed only to have the effect of further enraging it.
There was a second fierce attack, and beneath the flailing of wings Bomba found himself borne to the floor.
In the fall the machete dropped from his hands.
Weaponless! Helpless!
In a fury of impotence, Bomba beat at the bats with both fists. He struck out wildly, blindly. But his wily enemies avoided the blows and pressed him the more viciously.
Bomba could not see that Casson had slipped from his bed and was staggering to his feet. Even if he had, he would have felt but little hope. Before Casson in his enfeebled state could be of any assistance, Bomba’s need of help would be over.