Randal chuckled in ugly fashion as he got up, flung the stump of his cigar into the fireplace, and, lighting a small hand lamp, left the room.
"How much farther have we got to go before we run into any of this game you talked about, Mr. Fearon?" asked Rutherford as he stopped and wiped the perspiration from his streaming face.
"I thought we'd have seen a buck before now," replied Randal Fearon. "We don't often have to come this far into the Big Cypress to find game, do we, Pete?"
"No, sah; we gen'rally finds it quite clos' to the aidge of de swamp," said Pete, who was a burly, square-shouldered negro with a face as black as ebony.
Rutherford was rather puzzled. That morning Randal Fearon had suggested that it would be very good fun to go shooting in the Big Cypress, a huge tract of wild, swampy forest, the edge of which was about five miles from Colonel Fearon's place.
"You might try the effect of some of your explosive bullets," Randal had suggested; and Rutherford had laughed and said that there wouldn't be much left of any game smaller than a buffalo or an elephant if struck by one of his projectiles.
All the same, being a keen sportsman, he had willingly agreed to the shoot. What puzzled him was that they should have tramped for hours through this steaming bush, which reeked with signs of game, and yet not seen a single thing to shoot at.
"Don't you worry. We shall find deer soon," said Randal when Rutherford expressed his astonishment. "We're getting near a good place now. I reckon we'd better stop and eat our dinner first. Pete, make a fire."
Pete Dally dropped the big haversack he was carrying over his broad shoulders, and obeyed. In a very few minutes a fire was blazing, and the fragrant fumes of frying bacon and strong coffee filled the close, steamy air. Lionel Rutherford, tired by the long tramp and the hot-house atmosphere of the jungle, enjoyed the meal greatly.