"Now where in the deuce is George?" Ken said, impatiently.
The hollow crack of George's .32 was a reply to the question. Ken heard the singing of a bullet. Suddenly, spou! it twanged on a branch not twenty feet over his head, and then went whining away. He heard it tick a few leaves or twigs. There was not any languor in the alacrity with which Ken put the big cypress-tree between him and up-stream. Then he ventured to peep forth.
"Look out where you're slinging lead!" he yelled. He doubted not that George had treed a black squirrel or was pegging away at parrots. Yet Pepe's motions appeared to carry a good deal of feeling, too much, he thought presently, for small game. So Ken began to wake up thoroughly. He lost sight of Pepe behind a low branch of a tree that leaned some fifty yards above the island. Then he caught sight of him again. He was poling with an oar, evidently trying to go up or down--Ken could not tell which.
Spang! Spang! George's .32 spoke twice more, and the bullets both struck in the middle of the stream and ricochetted into the far bank with little thuds.
Something prompted Ken to reach for his automatic, snap the clip in tight, and push in the safety. At the same time he muttered George's words: "You can never tell what's coming off in this unholy jungle."
Then, peeping out from behind the cypress, Ken watched the boat drift down-stream. Pepe had stopped poling and was looking closely into the thick grass and vines of the bank. Ken heard his voice, but could not tell what he said. He watched keenly for some sight of George. The moments passed, the boat drifted, and Ken began to think there was nothing unusual afoot. In this interval Pepe drifted within seventy-five yards of camp. Again Ken called to ask him what George was stalking, and this time Pepe yelled; but Ken did not know what he said. Hard upon this came George's sharp voice:
"Look out, there, on the island. Get behind something. I've got him between the river and the flat. He's in this strip of shore brush. There!"
Spang! Spang! Spang! Bullets hummed and whistled all about the island. Ken was afraid to peep out with even one eye. He began to fancy that George was playing Indian.
"Fine, Georgie! You're doing great!" he shouted. "You couldn't come any closer to me if you were aiming at me. What is it?"
Then a crashing of brush and a flash of yellow low down along the bank changed the aspect of the situation.