Into the Primitive

CHAPTER IX
THE LEOPARDS’ DEN

Dawn found them half way to their goal. Blake called a halt when the first red streaks shot up the eastern sky. All stood waiting until the quickly following sun sprang forth from the sea. Blake’s first act was to glance from one headland to the other, estimating their relative distances. His grunt of satisfaction was lost in Winthrope’s exclamation, “By Jove, look at the cattle!”

Blake and Miss Leslie turned to stare at the droves of animals moving about between them and the border of the tall grass. Miss Leslie was the first to speak. “They can’t be cattle, Mr. Winthrope. There are some with stripes. I do believe they’re zebras!”

“Get down!” commanded Blake. “They’re all wild game. Those big ox-like fellows to the left of the zebras are eland. Whee! wouldn’t we be in it if we owned that water hole? I’ll bet I’d have one of those fat beeves inside three days.”

“How I should enjoy a juicy steak!” murmured Miss Leslie.

“Raw or jerked?” questioned Blake.

“What is ‘jerked’?”

“Dried.”

“Oh, no; I mean broiled–just red inside.”

“I prefer mine quite rare,” added Winthrope.

“That’s the way you’ll get it, damned rare–Beg your pardon, Miss Jenny! Without fire, we’ll have the choice of raw or jerked.”

“Horrors!”

“Jerked meat is all right. You cut your game in strips–”

“With a penknife!” laughed Miss Leslie.

Blake stared at her glumly. “That’s so. You’ve got it back on me– Butcher a beef with a penknife! We’ll have to take it raw, and dog-fashion at that.”

“Haven’t I heard of bamboo knives?” said Winthrope.

“Bamboo?”

“I’m sure I can’t say, but as I remember, it seems to me that the varnish-like glaze–”

“Silica? Say, that would cut meat. But where in–where in hades are the bamboos?”

“I’m sure I can’t say. Only I remember that I have seen them in other tropical places, you know.”

“Meantime I prefer cocoanuts, until we have a fire to broil our steaks,” remarked Miss Leslie.

“Ditto, Miss Jenny, long’s we have the nuts and no meat. I’m a vegetarian now–but maybe my mouth ain’t watering for something else. Look at all those chops and roasts and stews running around out there!”

“They are making for the grass,” observed Winthrope. “Hadn’t we better start?”

“Nuts won’t weigh so much without the shells. We’ll eat right here.”

There were only a few nuts left. They were drained and cracked and scooped out, one after another. The last chanced to break evenly across the middle.

“Hello,” said Blake, “the lower part of this will do for a bowl, Miss Jenny. When you’ve eaten the cream, put it in your pocket. Say, Win, have you got the bottle and keys and–”

“All safe–everything.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Winthrope?” asked Miss Leslie. “Men’s pockets seem so open. Twice I’ve had to pick up Mr. Blake’s locket.”

“Locket?” echoed Blake.

“The ivory locket. Women may be curious, Mr. Blake, but I assure you, I did not look inside, though–”

“Let me–give it here–quick!” gasped Blake.

Startled by his tone and look, Miss Leslie caught an oval object from the side pocket of the coat, and thrust it into Blake’s outstretched hand. For a moment he stared at it, unable to believe his eyes; then he leaped up, with a yell that sent the droves of zebras and antelope flying into the tall grass.

“Oh! oh!” screamed Miss Leslie. “Is it a snake? Are you bitten?”

“Bitten?–Yes, by John Barleycorn! Must have been fuzzy drunk to put it in my coat. Always carry it in my fob pocket. What a blasted infernal idiot I’ve been! Kick me, Win,–kick me hard!”

“I say, Blake, what is it? I don’t quite take you. If you would only–”

“Fire!–fire! Can’t you see? We’ve got all hell beat! Look here.”

He snapped open the slide of the supposed locket, and before either of his companions could realize what he would be about, was focussing the lens of a surveyor’s magnifying-glass upon the back of Winthrope’s hand. The Englishman jerked the hand away–

“Ow! That burns!”

Blake shook the glass in their bewildered faces.

“Look there!” he shouted, “there’s fire; there’s water; there’s birds’ eggs and beefsteaks! Here’s where we trek on the back trail. We’ll smoke out that leopard in short order!”

“You don’t mean to say, Blake–”

“No; I mean to do! Don’t worry. You can hide with Miss Jenny on the point, while I engineer the deal. Fall in.”

The day was still fresh when they found themselves back at the foot of the cliff. Here arose a heated debate between the men. Winthrope, stung by Blake’s jeering words, insisted upon sharing the attack, though with no great enthusiasm. Much to Blake’s surprise, Miss Leslie came to the support of the Englishman.

“But, Mr. Blake,” she argued, “you say it will be perfectly safe for us here. If so, it will be safe for myself alone.”

“I can play this game without him.”

“No doubt. Yet if, as you say, you expect to keep off the leopard with a torch, would it not be well to have Mr. Winthrope at hand with other torches, should yours burn out?”

“Yes; if I thought he’d be at hand after the first scare.”

Winthrope started off, almost on a run. At that moment he might have faced the leopard single-handed. Blake chuckled as he swung away after his victim. Within ten paces, however, he paused to call back over his shoulder: “Get around the point, Miss Jenny, and if you want something to do, try braiding the cocoanut fibre.”

Miss Leslie made no response; but she stood for some time gazing after the two men. There was so much that was characteristic even in this rear view. For all his anger and his haste, the Englishman bore himself with an air of well-bred nicety. His trim, erect figure needed only a fresh suit to be irreproachable. On the other hand, a careless observer, at first glance, might have mistaken Blake, with his flannel shirt and shouldered club, for a hulking navvy. But there was nothing of the navvy in his swinging stride or in the resolute poise of his head as he came up with Winthrope.

Though the girl was not given to reflection, the contrast between the two could not but impress her. How well her countryman–coarse, uncultured, but full of brute strength and courage–fitted in with these primitive surroundings. Whereas Winthrope . . . . and herself . . . .

She fell into a kind of disquieted brown study. Her eyes had an odd look, both startled and meditative,–such a look as might be expected of one who for the first time is peering beneath the surface of things, and sees the naked Realities of Life, the real values, bared of masking conventions. It may have been that she was seeking to ponder the meaning of her own existence–that she had caught a glimpse of the vanity and wastefulness, the utter futility of her life. At the best, it could only have been a glimpse. But was not that enough?

“Of what use are such people as I?” she cried. “That man may be rough and coarse,–even a brute; but he at least does things–I’ll show him that I can do things, too!”

She hastened out around the corner of the cliff to the spot where they had spent the night. Here she gathered together the cocoanut husks, and seating herself in the shade of the overhanging ledges, began to pick at the coarse fibre. It was cruel work for her soft fingers, not yet fully healed from the thorn wounds. At times the pain and an overpowering sense of injury brought tears to her eyes; still more often she dropped the work in despair of her awkwardness. Yet always she returned to the task with renewed energy.

After no little perseverance, she found how to twist the fibre and plait it into cord. At best it was slow work, and she did not see how she should ever make enough cord for a fish-line. Yet, as she caught the knack of the work and her fingers became more nimble, she began to enjoy the novel pleasure of producing something.

She had quite forgot to feel injured, and was learning to endure with patience the rasping of the fibre between her fingers, when Winthrope came clambering around the corner of the cliff.

“What is it?” she exclaimed, springing up and hurrying to meet him. He was white and quivering, and the look in his eyes filled her with dread.

Her voice shrilled to a scream, “He’s dead!”

Winthrope shook his head.

“Then he’s hurt!–he’s hurt by that savage creature, and you’ve run off and left him–”

“No, no, Miss Genevieve, I must insist! The fellow is not even scratched.”

“Then why–?”

“It was the horror of it all. It actually made me ill.”

“You frightened me almost to death. Did the beast chase you?”

“That would have been better, in a way. Really, it was horrible! I’m still sick over it, Miss Genevieve.”

“But tell me about it. Did you set fire to the bushes in the cleft, as Mr. Blake–”

“Yes; after we had fetched what we could carry of that long grass–two big trusses. It grows ten or twelve feet tall, and is now quite dry. Part of it Blake made into torches, and we fired the bush all across the foot of the cleft. Really, one would not have thought there was that much dry wood in so green a dell. On either side of the rill the grass and brush flared like tinder, and the flames swept up the cleft far quicker than we had expected. We could hear them crackling and roaring louder than ever after the smoke shut out our view.”

“Surely, there is nothing so very horrible in that.”

“No, oh, no; it was not that. But the beast–the leopard! At first we heard one roar; then it was that dreadful snarling and yelling–most awful squalling! . . . . The wretched thing came leaping and tumbling down the path, all singed and blinded. Blake fired the big truss of grass, and the brute rolled right into the flames. It was shocking–dreadfully shocking! The wretched creature writhed and leaped about till it plunged into the pool. . . . . When it sought to crawl out, all black and hideous, Blake went up and killed it with his club–crushed in its skull–Ugh!”

Miss Leslie gazed at the unnerved Englishman with calm scrutiny.

“But why should you feel so about it?” she asked. “Was it not the beast’s life against ours?”

“But so horrible a death!”

“I’m sure Mr. Blake would have preferred to shoot the creature, had he a gun. Having nothing else than fire, I think it was all very brave of him. Now we are sure of water and food. Had we not best be going?”

“It was to fetch you that Blake sent me.”

Winthrope spoke with perceptible stiffness. He was chagrined, not only by her commendation of Blake, but by the indifference with which she had met his agitation.

They started at once, Miss Leslie in the lead. As they rounded the point, she caught sight of the smoke still rising from the cleft. A little later she noticed the vultures which were streaming down out of the sky from all quarters other than seaward. Their focal point seemed to be the trees at the foot of the cleft. A nearer view showed that they were alighting in the thorn bushes on the south border of the wood.

Of Blake there was nothing to be seen until Miss Leslie, still in the lead, pushed in among the trees. There they found him crouched beside a small fire, near the edge of the pool. He did not look up. His eyes were riveted in a hungry stare upon several pieces of flesh, suspended over the flames on spits of green twigs.

“Hello!” he sang out, as he heard their footsteps. “Just in time, Miss Jenny. Your broiled steak’ll be ready in short order.”

“Oh, build up the fire! I’m simply ravenous!” she exclaimed, between impatience and delight.

Winthrope was hardly less keen; yet his hunger did not altogether blunt his curiosity.

“I say, Blake,” he inquired, “where did you get the meat?”

“Stow it, Win, my boy. This ain’t a packing house. The stuff may be tough, but it’s not–er–the other thing. Here you are, Miss Jenny. Chew it off the stick.”

Though Winthrope had his suspicions, he took the piece of half-burned flesh which Blake handed him in turn, and fell to eating without further question. As Blake had surmised, the roast proved far other than tender. Hunger, however, lent it a most appetizing flavor. The repast ended when there was nothing left to devour. Blake threw away his empty spit, and rose to stretch. He waited for Miss Leslie to swallow her last mouthful, and then began to chuckle.

“What’s the joke?” asked Winthrope.

Blake looked at him solemnly.

“Well now, that was downright mean of me,” he drawled; “after robbing them, to laugh at it!”

“Robbing who?”

“The buzzards.”

“You’ve fed us on leopard meat! It’s–it’s disgusting!”

“I found it filling. How about you, Miss Jenny?”

Miss Leslie did not know whether to laugh or to give way to a feeling of nausea. She did neither.

“Can we not find the spring of which you spoke?” she asked. “I am thirsty.”

“Well, I guess the fire is about burnt out,” assented Blake. “Come on; we’ll see.”

The cleft now had a far different aspect from what it had presented on their first visit. The largest of the trees, though scorched about the base, still stood with unwithered foliage, little harmed by the fire. But many of their small companions had been killed and partly destroyed by the heat and flames from the burning brush. In places the fire was yet smouldering.

Blake picked a path along the edge of the rill, where the moist vegetation, though scorched, had refused to burn. After the first abrupt ledge, up which Blake had to drag his companions, the ascent was easy. But as they climbed around an outjutting corner of the steep right wall of the cleft, Blake muttered a curse of disappointment. He could now see that the cleft did not run to the top of the cliff, but through it, like a tiny box canyon. The sides rose sheer and smooth as walls. Midway, at the highest point of the cleft, the baobab towered high above the ridge crest, its gigantic trunk filling a third of the breadth of the little gorge. Unfortunately it stood close to the left wall.

“Here’s luck for you!” growled Blake. “Why couldn’t the blamed old tree have grown on the other side? We might have found a way to climb it. Guess we’ll have to smoke out another leopard. We’re no nearer those birds’ nests than we were yesterday.”

“By Jove, look here!” exclaimed Winthrope. “This is our chance for antelope! Here by the spring are bamboos–real bamboos,–and only half the thicket burned.”

“What of them?” demanded Blake.

“Bows–arrows–and did you not agree that they would make knives?”

“Umph–we’ll see. What is it, Miss Jenny?”

“Isn’t that a hole in the big tree?”

“Looks like it. These baobabs are often hollow.”

“Perhaps that is where the leopard had his den,” added Winthrope.

“Shouldn’t wonder. We’ll go and see.”

“But, Mr. Blake,” protested the girl, “may there not be other leopards?”

“Might have been; but I’ll bet they lit out with the other. Look how the tree is scorched. Must have been stacks of dry brush around the hole, ’nough to smoke out a fireman. We’ll look and see if they left any soup bones lying around. First, though, here’s your drink, Miss Jenny.”

As he spoke, Blake kicked aside some smouldering branches, and led the way to the crevice whence the spring trickled from the rock into a shallow stone basin. When all had drunk their fill of the clear cool water, Blake took up his club and walked straight across to the baobab. Less than thirty steps brought him to the narrow opening in the trunk of the huge tree. At first he could make out nothing in the dimly lit interior; but the fetid, catty odor was enough to convince him that he had found the leopards’ den.

He caught the vague outlines of a long body, crouched five or six yards away, on the far side of the hollow. He sprang back, his club brandished to strike. But the expected attack did not follow. Blake glanced about as though considering the advisability of a retreat. Winthrope and Miss Leslie were staring at him, white-faced. The sight of their terror seemed to spur him to dare-devil bravado; though his actions may rather have been due to the fact that he realized the futility of flight, and so rose to the requirements of the situation–the grim need to stand and face the danger.

“Get behind the bamboos!” he called, and as they hurriedly obeyed, he caught up a stone and flung it in at the crouching beast.

He heard the missile strike with a soft thud that told him he had not missed his mark, and he swung up his club in both hands. Given half a chance, he would smash the skull of the female leopard as he had crushed her blinded mate. . . . . One moment after another passed, and he stood poised for the shock, tense and scowling. . . . . Not so much as a snarl came from within. The truth flashed upon him.

“Smothered!” he yelled.

The others saw him dart in through the hole. A moment later two limp grayish bodies were flung out into the open. Immediately after, Blake reappeared, dragging the body of the mother leopard.

“It’s all right; they’re dead!” cried Winthrope, and he ran forward to look at the bodies.

Miss Leslie followed, hardly less curious.

“Are they all dead, Mr. Blake?” she inquired.

“Wiped out–whole family. The old cat stayed by her kittens, and all smothered together–lucky for us! Get busy with those bamboos, Win. I’m going to have these skins, and the sooner we get the cub meat hung up and curing, the better for us.”

“Leopard meat again!” rejoined Winthrope.

“Spring leopard, young and tender! What more could you ask? Get a move on you.”

“Can I do anything, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie.

“Hunt a shady spot.”

“But I really mean it.”

“Well, if that’s straight, you might go on along the gully, and see if there’s any place to get to the top. You could pick up sticks on the way back, if any are left. We’ll have to fumigate this tree hole before we adopt it for a residence.”

“Will it be long before you finish with your–with the bodies?”

“Well, now, look here, Miss Jenny; it’s going to be a mess, and I wouldn’t mind hauling the carcasses clear down the gully, out of sight, if it was to be the only time. But it’s not, and you’ve got to get used to it, sooner or later. So we’ll start now.”

“I suppose, if I must, Mr. Blake– Really, I wish to help.”

“Good. That’s something like! Think you can learn to cook?”

“See what I did this morning.”

Blake took the cord of cocoanut fibre which she held out to him, and tested its strength.

“Well, I’ll be–blessed!” he said. “This is something like. If you don’t look out, you’ll make quite a camp-mate, Miss Jenny. But now, trot along. This is hardly arctic weather, and our abattoir don’t include a cold-storage plant. The sooner these lambs are dressed, the better.”

CHAPTER X
PROBLEMS IN WOODCRAFT

Miss Leslie drew a few steps nearer, and forced herself to look at the revolting sight. She found it still more difficult to withstand the odor of the fresh blood. Winthrope was pale and nauseated. The sight of his distress caused the girl to forget her own loathing. She drew a deep breath, and succeeded in countering Blake’s expectant look with a half-smile.

“How well you are getting along!” she exclaimed.

“Didn’t think you could stand it. But you’ve got grit all right, if you are a lady,” Blake said admiringly. “Say, you’ll make it yet! Now, how about the gully?”

“There is no place to climb up. It runs along like this, and then slopes down. But there is a cliff at the end, as high as these walls.”

“Twenty feet,” muttered Blake. “Confound the luck! It isn’t that jump-off; but how in–how are we going to get up on the cliff? There’s an everlasting lot of omelettes in those birds’ nests. If only that bloomin’–how’s that, Win, me b’y?–that bloomin’, blawsted baobab was on t’ other side. The wood’s almost soft as punk. We could drive in pegs, and climb up the trunk.”

“There are other trees beyond it,” remarked Miss Leslie.

“Then maybe we can shin up–”

“I fear the branches that overhang the cliff are too slender to bear any weight.”

“And it’s too infernally high to climb up to this overhanging baobab limb.”

“I say,” ventured Winthrope, “if we had a axe, now, we might cut up one of the trees, and make a ladder.”

“Oh, yes; and if we had a ladder, we might climb up the cliff!”

“But, Mr. Blake, is there not some way to cut down one of the trees? The tree itself would be a ladder if it fell in such a way as to lean against the cliff.”

“There’s only the penknife,” answered Blake. “So I guess we’ll have to scratch eggs off our menu card. Spring leopard for ours! Now, if you really want to help, you might scrape the soup bones out of your boudoir, and fetch a lot more brush. It’ll take a big fire to rid the hole of that cat smell.”

“Will not the tree burn?”

“No; these hollow baobabs have green bark on the inside as well as out. Funny thing, that! We’d have to keep a fire going a long time to burn through.”

“Yet it would burn in time?”

“Yes; but we’re not going to–”

“Then why not burn through the trunk of one of those small trees, instead of chopping it down?”

“By–heck, Miss Jenny, you’ve got an American headpiece! Come on. Sooner we get the thing started, the better.”

Neither Winthrope nor Miss Leslie was reluctant to leave the vicinity of the carcasses. They followed close after Blake, around the monstrous bole of the baobab. A little beyond it stood a group of slender trees, whose trunks averaged eight inches thick at the base. Blake stopped at the second one, which grew nearest to the seaward side of the cleft.

“Here’s our ladder,” he said. “Get some firewood. Pound the bushes, though, before you go poking into them. May be snakes here.”

“Snakes?–oh!” cried Miss Leslie, and she stood shuddering at the danger she had already incurred.

The fire had burnt itself out on a bare ledge of rock between them and the baobab, and the clumps of dry brush left standing in this end of the cleft were very suggestive of snakes, now that Blake had called attention to the possibility of their presence.

He laughed at his hesitating companions. “Go on, go on! Don’t squeal till you’re bit. Most snakes hike out, if you give them half a chance. Take a stick, each of you, and pound the bushes.”

Thus urged, both started to work. But neither ventured into the thicker clumps. When they returned, with large armfuls of sticks and twigs, they found that Blake had used his glass to light a handful of dry bark, out in the sun, and was nursing it into a small fire at the base of the tree, on the side next the cliff.

“Now, Miss Jenny,” he directed, “you’re to keep this going–not too big a fire–understand? Same time you can keep on fetching brush to fumigate your cat hole. It needs it, all right.”

“Will not that be rather too much for Miss Leslie?” asked Winthrope.

“Well, if she’d rather come and rub brains on the skins,–Indian tan, you know,–or–”

“How can you mention such things before a lady?” protested Winthrope.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Leslie! you see, I’m not much used to ladies’ company. Anyway, you’ve got to see and hear about these things. And now I’ll have to get the strings for Win’s bamboo bows. Come on, Win. We’ve got that old tabby to peel, and a lot more besides.”

Miss Leslie’s first impulse was to protest against being left alone, when at any moment some awful venomous serpent might come darting at her out of the brush or the crevices in the rocks. But her half-parted lips drew firmly together, and after a moment’s hesitancy, she forced herself to the task which had been assigned her. The fire, once started, required little attention. She could give most of her time to gathering brush for the fumigation of the leopard den.

She had collected quite a heap of fuel at the entrance of the hollow, when she remembered that the place would first have to be cleared of its accumulation of bones. A glance at her companions showed that they were in the midst of tasks even more revolting. It was certainly disagreeable to do such things; yet, as Mr. Blake had said, others had to do them. It was now her time to learn. She could see him smile at her hesitation.

Stung by the thought of his half contemptuous pity, she caught up a forked stick, and forced herself to enter the tree-cave. The stench met her like a blow. It nauseated and all but overpowered her. She stood for several moments in the centre of the cavity, sick and faint. Had it been even the previous day, she would have run out into the open air.

Presently she grew a little more accustomed to the stench, and began to rake over the soft dry mould of the den floor with her forked stick. Bones!–who had ever dreamed of such a mess of bones?–big bones and little bones and skulls; old bones, dry and almost buried; mouldy bones; bones still half-covered with bits of flesh and gristle–the remnants of the leopard family’s last meal.

At last all were scraped out and flung in a heap, three or four yards away from the entrance. Miss Leslie looked at the result of her labor with a satisfied glance, followed by a sigh of relief. Between the heat and her unwonted exercise, she was greatly fatigued. She stepped around to a shadier spot to rest.

With a start, she remembered the fire.

When she reached it there were only a few dying embers left. She gathered dead leaves and shreds of fibrous inner bark, and knelt beside the dull coals to blow them into life. She could not bear the thought of having to confess her carelessness to Blake.

The hot ashes flew up in her face and powdered her hair with their gray dust; yet she persisted, blowing steadily until a shred of bark caught the sparks and flared up in a tiny flame. A little more, and she had a strong fire blazing against the tree trunk.

She rested a short time, relaxing both mentally and physically in the satisfying consciousness that Blake never should know how near she had come to failing in her trust.

Soon she became aware of a keen feeling of thirst and hunger. She rose, piled a fresh supply of sticks on the fire, and hastened back through the cleft towards the spring. Around the baobab she came upon Winthrope, working in the shade of the great tree. The three leopard skins had been stretched upon bamboo frames, and he was resignedly scraping at their inner surfaces with a smooth-edged stone. Miss Leslie did not look too closely at the operation.

“Where is–he?” she asked.

Winthrope motioned down the cleft.

“I hope he hasn’t gone far. I’m half famished. Aren’t you?”

“Really, Miss Genevieve, it is odd, you know. Not an hour since, the very thought of food–”

“And now you’re as hungry as I am. Oh, I do wish he had not gone off just at the wrong time!”

“He went to take a dip in the sea. You know, he got so messed up over the nastiest part of the work, which I positively refused to do–”

“What’s that beyond the bamboos?–There’s something alive!”

“Pray, don’t be alarmed. It is–er–it’s all right, Miss Genevieve, I assure you.”

“But what is it? Such queer noises, and I see something alive!”

“Only the vultures, if you must know. Nothing else, I assure you.”

“Oh!”

“It is all out of sight from the spring. You are not to go around the bamboos until the–that is, not to-day.”

“Did Mr. Blake say that?”

“Why, yes–to be sure. He also said to tell you that the cutlets were on the top shelf.”

“You mean –?”

“His way of ordering you to cook our dinner. Really, Miss Genevieve, I should be pleased to take your place, but I have been told to keep to this. It is hard to take orders from a low fellow,–very hard for a gentleman, you know.”

Miss Leslie gazed at her shapely hands. Three days since she could not have conceived of their being so rough and scratched and dirty. Yet her disgust at their condition was not entirely unqualified.

“At least I have something to show for them,” she murmured.

“I beg pardon,” said Winthrope.

“Just look at my hands–like a servant’s! And yet I am not nearly so ashamed of them as I would have fancied. It is very amusing, but do you know, I actually feel proud that I have done something–something useful, I mean.”

“Useful?–I call it shocking, Miss Genevieve. It is simply vile that people of our breeding should be compelled to do such menial work. They write no end of romances about castaways; but I fail to see the romance in scraping skins Indian fashion, as this fellow Blake calls it.”

“I suppose, though, we should remember how much Mr. Blake is doing for us, and should try to make the best of the situation.”

“It has no best. It is all a beastly muddle,” complained Winthrope, and he resumed his nervous scraping at the big leopard skin.

The girl studied his face for a moment, and turned away. She had been trying so hard to forget.

He heard her leave, and called after, without looking up: “Please remember. He said to cook some meat.”

She did not answer. Having satisfied her thirst at the spring, she took one of the bamboo rods, with its haggled blackening pieces of flesh, and returned to the fire. After some little experimenting, she contrived a way to support the rod beside the fire so that all the meat would roast without burning.

At first, keen as was her hunger, she turned with disgust from the flabby sun-seared flesh; but as it began to roast, the odor restored her appetite to full vigor. Her mouth fairly watered. It seemed as though Winthrope and Blake would never come. She heard their voices, and took the bamboo spit from the fire for the meat to cool. Still they failed to appear, and unable to wait longer, she began to eat. The cub meat proved far more tender than that of the old leopard. She had helped herself to the second piece before the two men appeared.

“Hold on, Miss Jenny; fair play!” sang out Blake. “You’ve set to without tooting the dinner-horn. I don’t blame you, though. That smells mighty good.”

Both men caught at the hot meat with eagerness, and Winthrope promptly forgot all else in the animal pleasure of satisfying his hunger. Blake, though no less hungry, only waited to fill his mouth before investigating the condition of the prospective tree ladder. The result of the attempt to burn the trunk did not seem encouraging to the others, and Miss Leslie looked away, that her face might not betray her, should he have an inkling of her neglect. She was relieved by the cheerfulness of his tone.

“Slow work, this fire business–eh? Guess, though, it’ll go faster this afternoon. The green wood is killed and is getting dried out. Anyway, we’ve got to keep at it till the tree goes over. This spring leopard won’t last long at the present rate of consumption, and we’ll need the eggs to keep us going till we get the hang of our bows.”

“What is that smoke back there?” interrupted Miss Leslie. “Can it be that the fire down the cleft has sprung up again?”

“No; it’s your fumigation. You had plenty of brush on hand, so I heaved it into the hole, and touched it off. While it’s burning out, you can put in time gathering grass and leaves for a bed.”

“Would you and Mr. Winthrope mind breaking off some bamboos for me?”

“What for?”

Miss Leslie colored and hesitated. “I–I should like to divide off a corner of the place with a wall or screen.”

Winthrope tried to catch Blake’s eye; but the American was gazing at Miss Leslie’s embarrassed face with a puzzled look. Her meaning dawned upon him, and he hastened to reply.

“All right, Miss Jenny. You can build your wall to suit yourself. But there’ll be no hurry over it. Until the rains begin, Win and I’ll sleep out in the open. We’ll have to take turn about on watch at night, anyway. If we don’t keep up a fire, some other spotted kitty will be sure to come nosing up the gully.”

“There must also be lions in the vicinity,” added Winthrope.

Miss Leslie said nothing until after the last pieces of meat had been handed around, and Blake sprang up to resume work.

“Mr. Blake,” she called, in a low tone; “one moment, please. Would it save much bother if a door was made, and you and Mr. Winthrope should sleep inside?”

“We’ll see about that later,” replied Blake, carelessly.

The girl bit her lip, and the tears started to her eyes. Even Winthrope had started off without expressing his appreciation. Yet he at least should have realized how much it had cost her to make such an offer.

By evening she had her tree-cave–house, she preferred to name it to herself–in a habitable condition. When the purifying fire had burnt itself out, leaving the place free from all odors other than the wholesome smell of wood smoke, she had asked Blake how she could rake out the ashes. His advice was to wet them down where they lay.

This was easier said than done. Fortunately, the spring was only a few yards distant, and after many trips, with her palm-leaf hat for bowl, the girl carried enough water to sprinkle all the powdery ashes. Over them she strewed the leaves and grass which she had gathered while the fire was burning. The driest of the grass, arranged in a far corner, promised a more comfortable bed than had been her lot for the last three nights.

During this work she had been careful not to forget the fire at the tree. Yet when, near sundown, she called the others to the third meal of leopard meat, Blake grumbled at the tree for being what he termed such a confounded tough proposition.

“Good thing there’s lots of wood here, Win,” he added. “We’ll keep this fire going till the blamed thing topples over, if it takes a year.”

“Oh, but you surely will not stay so far from the baobab to-night!” exclaimed Miss Leslie.

“Hold hard!” soothed Blake. “You’ve no license to get the jumps yet a while. We’ll have another fire by the baobab. So you needn’t worry.”

A few minutes later they went back to the baobab, and Winthrope began helping Miss Leslie to construct a bamboo screen in the narrow entrance of the tree-cave, while Blake built the second fire.

As Winthrope was unable to tell time by the stars, Blake took the first watch. At sunset, following the engineer’s advice, Winthrope lay down with his feet to the small watch-fire, and was asleep before twilight had deepened into night. Fagged out by the mental and bodily stress of the day, he slept so soundly that it seemed to him he had hardly lost consciousness when he was roused by a rough hand on his forehead.

“What is it?” he mumbled.

“’Bout one o’clock,” said Blake. “Wake up! I ran overtime, ’cause the morning watch is the toughest. But I can’t keep ’wake any longer.”

“I say, this is a beastly bore,” remarked Winthrope, sitting up.

“Um-m,” grunted Blake, who was already on his back.

Winthrope rubbed his eyes, rose wearily, and drew a blazing stick from the fire. With this upraised as a torch, he peered around into the darkness, and advanced towards the spring.

When, having satisfied his thirst, he returned somewhat hurriedly to the fire, he was startled by the sight of a pale face gazing at him from between the leaves of the bamboo screen.

“My dear Miss Genevieve, what is the matter?” he exclaimed.

“Hush! Is he asleep?”

“Like a top.”

“Thank Heaven! . . . . Good-night.”

“Good-night–er–I say, Miss Genevieve–”

But the girl disappeared, and Winthrope, after a glance at Blake’s placid face, hurried along the cleft to stack the other fire. When he returned he noticed two bamboo rods which Blake had begun to shape into bow staves. He looked them over, with a sneer at Blake’s seemingly unskilful workmanship; but he made no attempt to finish the bows.

CHAPTER XI
A DESPOILED WARDROBE

Miss Leslie cooked breakfast over the watch-fire, for the other had been scattered and stamped out by the men when the tree fell. They came back in good time, walking carefully, that they might not break the eggs with which their pockets bulged. Between them, they had brought a round dozen and a half. Blake promptly began stowing all in the hot ashes, while Winthrope related their little adventure with unwonted enthusiasm.

“You should have come with us, Miss Genevieve,” he began. “This time of day it is glorious on the cliff top. Though the rock is bare, there is a fine view–”

“Fine view of grub near the end,” interpolated Blake.

“Ah, yes; the birds–you must take a look at them, Miss Genevieve! The sea end of the cliff is alive with them–hundreds and thousands, all huddled together and fighting for room. They are a sight, I assure you! They’re plucky, too. It was well we took sticks with us. As it was, one of the gannets–boobies, Blake calls them–caught me a nasty nip when I went to lift her off the nest.”

“Best way is to kick them off,” explained Blake. “But the point is that we’ve hopped over the starvation stile. Understand? The whole blessed cliff end is an omelette waiting for our pan. Pass the leopardettes, Miss Jenny.”

When the last bit of meat had disappeared, Blake raked the eggs from the ashes, and began to crack them, solemnly sniffing at each before he laid it on its leaf platter. Some were a trifle “high.” None, however, were thrown away.

When it was all over, Winthrope contemplated the scattered shells with a satisfied air.

“Do you know,” he remarked, “this is the first time I have felt–er–replenished since we found those cocoanuts.”

“How about one of ’em now to top off on?” questioned Blake.

Miss Leslie sighed. “Why did you speak of them! I am still hungry enough to eat more eggs–a dozen–that is, if we had a little salt and butter.”

“And a silver cup and napkins!” added Blake. “About the salt, though, we’ll have to get some before long, and some kind of vegetable food. It won’t do to keep up this whole meat menu.”

“If only those little bamboo sprouts were as good as they look–like a kind of asparagus!” murmured Miss Leslie.

“I’ve heard that the Chinese eat them,” said Winthrope.

“They eat rats, too,” commented Blake.

“We might at least try them,” persisted Miss Leslie.

“How? Raw?”

“I have heard papa tell of roasting corn when he was a boy.”

“That’s so; and roasting-ears are better than boiled. Win, I guess we’ll have a sample of bamboo asparagus à la Les-lee!”

Winthrope took the penknife, and fetched a handful of young sprouts from the bamboo thicket. They were heated over the coals on a grill of green branches, and devoured half raw.

“Say,” mumbled Blake, as he ruminated on the last shoot, “we’re getting on some for this smell hole of a coast: house and chicken ranch, and vegetables in our front yard– We’ve got old Bobbie Crusoe beat, hands down, on the start-off, and he with his shipful of stuff for handicap!”

“Then you believe that the situation looks more hopeful, Mr. Blake?”

“Well, we’ve at least got an extension on our note for a week or two. But I’m not going to coddle you with a lot of lies, Miss Jenny. There’s the fever coming, sure as fate. I may stave it off a while; you and Win, ten to one, will be down in a few days–and not a smell of quinine in our commissary. Then there’ll be dysentery and snakes and wild beasts–No; we’re not out of the woods yet, not by a–considerable.”

“By Jove, Blake,” muttered Winthrope, “I must say, you’re not very encouraging.”

“Didn’t say I was trying to be.”

“But, Mr. Blake, I am sure papa will offer a large reward when the steamer is reported as lost. There will be ships searching for us–”

“We’re not in the British Channel, and I’ll bet what few boats do coast along here don’t nose about much among these coral reefs.”

“I fancy it would do no harm to erect a signal,” said Winthrope.

“Only thing that would make a show is Miss Leslie’s skirt,” replied Blake.

“There is the big leopard skin,” persisted Winthrope. To his surprise the engineer took the suggestion under serious consideration.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “If we had a water background, now. But against the rock and trees,–no; what we want is white. I’ll tell you–when Miss Jenny sets to and makes herself a dress of that skin, I’ll fly her skirt to the zephyrs.”

“Mr. Blake! I really think that is cruel of you!”

“Oh, come now; that’s not fair! I wouldn’t have said a word, but you said you wanted to help.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake. I–I did not quite understand you. I really do want to help–to do my share–”

“Now you’re talking! You see, it’s not only a question of the signal, but of clothes. We’ve got to figure anyway on needing new ones before long. Look at my pants and vest, and Win’s too. Inside a month we’ll all be in hide–or in hiding. That’s a joke, Win, me b’y; see?”

“But in the meantime–” began Miss Leslie.

“In the meantime we’re like to miss a chance or two of being picked up, just because we’ve failed to stick out a signal that’d catch the eye twice as far off as any other color than scarlet. Do you suppose I worked my way up from axeman to engineer, and didn’t learn anything about flags?”

“But it is all really too absurd! I do not know the first thing about sewing, and I have neither thread nor needle.”

“It’s up to you, though, if you want to help. My sisters sewed mighty soon after they learned to toddle. ’Bout time you learned– There, now; I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’ve made a fair stagger at cooking, and I bet you win out on the dressmaking. For needle you can use one of these long slim thorns–poke a hole, and then slip the thread through, like a shoemaker.”

“Ah, yes; but the thread?” put in Winthrope.

“The cocoanut fibre would hardly do,” said Miss Leslie, forgetting to dry her eyes.

“No. We could get fairly good fibres out of the palm leaves; but catgut will be a whole lot better. I’ll slit up a lot for you, fine enough to sew with. And now, let’s get down to tacks. No offence–but did either of you ever learn to do anything useful in all your blessed little lives?”

“Why, Mr. Blake, of course I–”

“Of course what?” demanded Blake, as Miss Leslie hesitated. “We know all about your cooking and sewing. What else?”

“I–I see what you meant. I fear that nothing of what I learned would be of service now.”

“Boarding-school rot, eh? And you, Winthrope?”

“If you would kindly name over what you have in mind.”

“Um!” grunted Blake. “Well, it’s first of all a question of a practical–practical, mind you,–knowledge of metallurgy, ceramics, and how to stick an arrow through a beef roast.”

“I–ah–I believe I intimated that I have some knowledge of archery. But I doubt–”

“Cut it out! You’ll have enough else to do. Get busy over those bows and arrows, and don’t quit till you’ve got them in shape. Leave my bow good and stiff. I can pull like a mule can kick. Well, Miss Jenny; what is it?”

“Is not–has not ceramics something to do with burning china?”

“Sure!–china, pottery, and all that. Know anything about it?”

“Why, I have a friend who amuses herself by painting china, and I know it has to be burned.”

“And that’s all!” grunted Blake. “Well, let me tell you. When I was a little kid I used to work in a pottery. All I can remember is that they’d take clay, shape it into a pot, dry it, and bake the thing in a kiln. We’ve got to work the same game somehow. This kind of eating will mean dysentery in short order. So there’s going to be a bean-pot for our stews, or Tom Blake’ll know the reason why. Nurse up that ankle of yours, Win. We’ll trek it to-morrow–cocoanuts, and maybe something else. There’s clay on the far bank of the river, and across from it I saw a streak that looked like brown hæmatite.”

CHAPTER XII
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

Winthrope had been gazetted as hunter in ordinary. His task was to keep Miss Leslie supplied with fresh eggs and each day to kill as many of the boobies and cormorants as he could skin and split for drying. Blake had changed his mind about taking him when he went for cocoanuts. Instead, he had gone alone on several trips, bringing three or four loads of nuts, then a little salt from the seashore, dirty but very welcome, and last of all a great lump of clay, wrapped in palm fronds.

With this clay he at once began experiments in the art of pottery. Having mixed and beaten a small quantity, he moulded it into little cups and bowls, and tried burning them over night in the watch-fire. A few came out without crack or flaw. Vastly elated by this success, he fashioned larger vessels from his clay, and within the week could brag of two pots suitable for cooking stews, and four large nondescript pieces which he called plates. What was more, all had a fairly good sand glaze, for he had been quick to observe a glaze on the bottoms of the first pots, and had reasoned out that it was due to the sand which had adhered while they stood drying in the sun.

He next turned his attention to metallurgy. The first move was to search the river bank for the brown bog iron ore which he believed he had seen from the farther side. After a dangerous and exhausting day’s work in the mire and jungle, he came back with nothing more to show for his pains than an armful of creepers. Late in the afternoon, he had located the hæmatite, only to find it lying in a streak so thin that he could not hope to collect enough for practical purposes.

“Lucky we’ve got something to fall back on,” he added, after telling of his failure. “Pass over those keys of yours, Win. Good! Now untangle those creepers. To-night we’ll take turns knotting them up into some sort of a rope-ladder. I’m getting mighty weary of hoofing it all around the point every time I trot to the river. After this I’ll go down the cliff at that end of the gully.”

Winthrope, who had become very irritable and depressed during the last two days, turned on his heel, with the look of a fretful child.

To cover this undiplomatic rudeness, Miss Leslie spoke somewhat hurriedly. “But why should you return again to the river, Mr. Blake? I’m sure you are risking the fever; and there must be savage beasts in the jungle.”

“That’s my business,” growled Blake. He paused a moment, and added, rather less ungraciously, “Well, if you care, it’s this way–I’m going to keep on looking for ore. Give me a little iron ore, and we’ll mighty soon have a lot of steel knives and arrow-heads that’ll amount to something. How’re we going to bag anything worth while with bamboo tips on our arrows? Those boar tusks are a fizzle.”

“So you will continue to risk your life for us? I think that is very brave and generous, Mr. Blake!”

“How’s that?” demanded Blake, not a little puzzled. He was fully conscious of the risk; but this was the first intimation he had received or conceived that his motives were other than selfish–“Um-m! So that’s the ticket. Getting generous, eh?”

“Not getting–you are generous! When I think of all you have done for us! Had it not been for you, I am sure we should have died that first day ashore.”

“Well, don’t blame me. I couldn’t have let a dog die that way; and then, a fellow needs a Man Friday for this sort of thing. As for you, I haven’t always had the luck to be favored with ladies’ company.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake. I quite appreciate the compliment. But now, I must put on supper.”

Blake followed her graceful movements with an intentness which, in turn, drew Winthrope’s attention to himself. The Englishman smiled in a disagreeable manner, and resumed his work on the bows, with the look of one mentally preoccupied. After supper he found occasion to spend some little time among the bamboos.

When at sunset Miss Leslie withdrew into the baobab, Winthrope somewhat officiously insisted upon helping her set up her screen in the entrance. As he did so, he took the opportunity to hand her a bamboo knife, and to draw her attention to several double-pointed bamboo stakes which he had hidden under the litter.

“What is it?” she asked, troubled by his furtive glance back at Blake.

“Merely precaution, you know,” he whispered. “The ground in there is quite soft. It will be no trouble, I fancy, to put up the stakes, with their points inclined towards the entrance.”

“But why–”

“Not so loud, Miss Genevieve! It struck me that if any one should seek to enter in the night, he would find these stakes deucedly unpleasant. Be careful how you handle them. As you see, the sharper points, which are to be set uppermost, run off into a razor edge. Put them up now, before it grows too dark. You know how ninepins are set–that shape. Good-night! You see, with these to guard the entrance, you need not be afraid to go to sleep at once.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and began to thrust the stakes into the ground as he had directed.

He had not been mistaken. The vague doubts and fears which she already entertained would have kept her awake throughout the night, but thanks to the sense of security afforded by the sword-bayonets of her silent little sentries, the girl was soon able to calm herself, and was fast asleep long before Blake wakened Winthrope.

Immediately after breakfast, Blake–who had spent his watch in grinding the edges from a stone and experimenting with split and bent twigs–put Winthrope’s keys in the fire, and began an attempt to shape them into a knife-blade. To heat the steel to the required temperature, he used a bamboo blowpipe, with his lungs for bellows.

Winthrope turned away with an indifferent bearing; but Miss Leslie found herself compelled to stop and admire his dexterous use of his rude tools.

One after another, the keys were welded together, end to end, in a narrow ribbon of steel. The thinnest one, however, was not fastened to the tip until it had been used to burn a groove in the edge of a rib, selected from among the bones which Miss Leslie had thrown out of the baobab. The last key was then fastened to the others; the blade ground sharp, tempered, and inserted in the groove. Finally, pieces of the key-ring were fitted in bands around the bone, through notches cut in the ends of the steel blade. The result was a bone-handled, bone-backed knife, with a narrow cutting edge of fine steel.

Long before it was finished Miss Leslie had been forced away by the requirements of her own work. In fact, Blake did not complete his task until late in the afternoon. At the end, he spent more than an hour grinding the handle into shape. When he came to show the completed knife to Miss Leslie, he was fairly aglow with justifiable pride.

“How’s that for an Eskimo job?” he demanded. “Bunch of keys and a bone, eh?”

“You are certainly very ingenious, Mr. Blake!”

“Nixy! There’s little of the inventor in my top piece–only some hustle and a good memory. I was up in Alaska, you know. Saw a sight of Eskimo work.”

“Still, it is very skilfully done.”

“That may be–Look out for the edge! It’d do to shave. No more bamboo splinters for me–dull when you hit a piece of bone. I’m ready now to skin a rhinoceros.”

“If you can catch one!”

“Guess we could find enough of them around here, all right. But we’ll start in on some of Win’s sheep and cattle.”

“Oh, do! One grows tired of eggs, and all these sea-birds are so tough and fishy, no matter how I cook them.”

“We’ll sneak down to the pool, and make a try with the bows this evening. I’ll give odds, though, that we draw a blank. Win’s got the aim, but no drive; I’ve got the drive, but no aim. Even if I hit an antelope, I don’t think a bamboo-pointed arrow would bother him much.”

“Don’t the savages kill game without iron weapons?”

“Sure; but a lot have flint points, and a lot of others use poison. I know that the Apaches and some of those other Southern Indians used to fix their arrows with rattlesnake poison.”

“How horrible!”

“Well, that depends on how you look at it. I guess they thought guns more horrible when they tackled the whites and got the daylight let through ’em. At any rate, they swapped arrows for rifles mighty quick, and any one who knows Apaches will tell you it wasn’t because they thought bullets would do less damage.”

“Yet the thought of poison–”

“Yes; but the thought of self-preservation! Sooner than starve, I’d poison every animal in Africa–and so would you.”

“I–I–You put it in such a horrible way. One must consider others, animals as well as people; and yet–”

“Survival of the fittest. I’ve read some things, and I’m no fool, if I do say it myself. For instance, I’m the boss here, because I’m the fittest of our crowd in this environment; but back in what’s called civilized parts, where the law lets a few shrewd fellows monopolize the means of production, a man like your father–”

“Mr. Blake, it is not my fault if papa’s position in the business world–”

“Nor his, either–it’s the cussed system! No; that’s all right, Miss Jenny. I was only illustrating. Now, I take it, both you and Win would like to get rid of a boss like me, if you could get rid of Africa at the same time. As it is, though, I guess you’d rather have me for boss, and live, than be left all by your lonesomes, to starve.”

“I–I’m sure there is no question of your leadership, Mr. Blake. We have both tried our best to do what you have asked of us.”

“You have, at least. But I know. If a ship should come to-morrow, it’d be Blake to the back seat. ‘Papa, give this–er–person a check for his services, while I chase off with Winnie, to get my look-in on ’Is Ri-yal ’Igh-ness.’”

Miss Leslie flushed crimson– “I’m sure, Mr. Blake–”

“Oh, don’t let that worry you, Miss Jenny. It don’t me. I couldn’t be sore with you if I tried. Just the same, I know what it’ll be like. I’ve rubbed elbows enough with snobs and big bugs to know what kind of consideration they give one of the mahsses–unless one of the mahsses has the drop on them. Hello, Win! What’s kept you so late?”

“None of your business!” snapped Winthrope.

Miss Leslie glanced at him, even more puzzled and startled by this outbreak than she had been by Blake’s strange talk. But if Blake was angered, he did not show it.

“Say, Win,” he remarked gravely, “I was going to take you down to the pool after supper, on a try with the bows. But I guess you’d better stay close by the fire.”

“Yes; it is time you gave a little consideration to those who deserve it,” rejoined Winthrope, with a peevishness of tone and manner which surprised Miss Leslie. “I tell you, I’m tired of being treated like a dog.”

“All right, all right, old man. Just draw up your chair, and get all the hot broth aboard you can stow,” answered Blake, soothingly.

Winthrope sat down; but throughout the meal, he continued to complain over trifles with the peevishness of a spoiled child, until Miss Leslie blushed for him. Greatly to her astonishment, Blake endured the nagging without a sign of irritation, and in the end took his bow and arrows and went off down the cleft, with no more than a quiet reminder to Winthrope that he should keep near the fire.

When, shortly after dark, the engineer came groping his way back up the gorge, he was by no means so calm. Out of six shots, he had hit one antelope in the neck and another in the haunch; yet both animals had made off all the swifter for their wounds.

The noise of his approach awakened Winthrope, who turned over, and began to complain in a whining falsetto. Miss Leslie, who was peering out through the bars of her screen, looked to see Blake kick the prostrate man. His frown showed only too clearly that he was in a savage temper. To her astonishment, he spoke in a soothing tone until Winthrope again fell asleep. Then he quietly set about erecting a canopy of bamboos over the sleeper.

Just why he should build this was a puzzle to the girl. But when she caught a glimpse of Blake’s altered expression, she drew a deep breath of relief, and picked her way around the edge of her bamboo stakes, to lie down without a trace of the fear which had been haunting her.