Half an hour after leaving the scene of the jaguar’s attack, he made a discovery which caused him no little concern.
He had lost his compass.
Realizing the risk of returning to the fatal spot, as well as the uncertainty of finding the lost instrument, he kept on without it, endeavoring to pursue as direct a course as possible.
In this he was unsuccessful, and two days later he was wandering at random through the intricate labyrinths of a Peruvian forest, nearly worn out and disheartened.
Hoping that his shots might be heard by some one who would come to his rescue, he had fired all but the last load of ammunition he had with him, and that charge was in his carbine.
“I might as well discharge that,” he said to himself. “It is my last chance and I might as well take it now as later. It is useless for me to try to find my way out of this wilderness.”
In his desperation he cocked the weapon, and pointing it skyward pulled the trigger.
Loud and long rang out the report on the deep silence of the forest, the distant foothills taking up the sound and flinging it back to the valleys in echoes that repeated the detonation far and wide. As the last sullen sound died away in the distance he leaned against one of the trees, saying half aloud:
“I might as well meet the worst here as anywhere.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed away, and satisfied that his last shot had been fired in vain, Jack started to resume his aimless wanderings, when the sound of footsteps fell upon his ears.