The boy explorers in darkest New Guinea

BADEROON was carried into the deck house, his long, muscular Papuan frame livid and limp. His rattan shield and bow were borne by Sadok, but from his wrist still dangled a long war club captured by him during the fight. It was of stout ironwood, with a head made of a thick disk of a stone like jade. The club was ornamented with rows of boars’ tusks dangling from its handle, alternating with tufts of human hair, and a stout strap held it to the wrist at its handle. Dwight remembered having a glimpse of Baderoon crashing valiantly through the pirate swarm with it, after his arrows were all shot away.

The curator put some brandy to Baderoon’s lips and the “boy” revived. The first thing he felt for was the tin mirror in his nose. Finding this still there, he sank back with a sigh of relief.

“There! That’s fine!” encouraged the curator, holding up the Papuan’s woolly head. “You-fellah come good-fellah soon, Baderoon! He’s got quite a rap on the roof and he’s lost a lot of blood from that arrow wound where it got torn out during the scrimmage. Get me my first-aid, quick. He feels a lot better, now that he knows his charm is all right!” he chuckled.

Baderoon opened his eyes and an irresistible grin cracked his thick lips.

“No kai-kai [eat] me-fellah! Orang-kaya him go Boom!—Boom!—All stop!” he grinned weakly, snapping all his fingers to imitate the explosion.

“All right, boy,” beamed the curator. “You-fellah stop, quiet! Will plenty debbil-debbil your arm,” he warned, producing the antiseptics. He shot the iodine into the open wound, while Baderoon set his teeth obediently, enduring the pain as best he could. Then his master wrapped on the gauze and bandages and hung the arm in a sling, and they all went out, leaving the native resting easily on a bench, afraid to touch his bandages under fear of the orang-kaya’s displeasure.

The proa was bowling along up the lagoon, sailing farther and farther in behind the Charles Louis Mountains as they looked about them. A large river flowed in up at the head of the lagoon, they knew, but the curator had decided to take the first creek mouth that looked uninhabited on the mountain shore. Not a sign of a village or even a canoe had they seen, so dense are the mangrove swamps. Finally a dent in them, at the end of a long valley between two of the mountains, came in sight. A careful search of the trees around it with the glasses revealed no more native scouts. The curator judged that they had gotten up to sparsely inhabited country, and the proa was nosed into a little bay with the swift, clear water of the creek running into it. With slack sheet she laid her prow into the mouth of it, the shores slipping by close at hand.

He gave the order to go ashore, and, shouldering their packs, Nicky and Dwight leaped into the jungle, followed by Sadok with a huge crate of empty collection boxes on his back. Baderoon jumped next, able to walk now, and carrying nothing but his bow and shield, a borrowed quiver of arrows, and his captured war club. Then the curator turned to the jurugan.

“Come back here in three weeks, Captain,” he said. “We’ll be here waiting for you—or dead. Good-by, all! Nice fight, wasn’t it!” A flash of grins swept the crew’s faces as he seized his light double shotgun and jumped for the bank. The proa backed off and soon her sails filled and she stood down the lagoon, bound for Aru.

“Well, boys, we’re on our own!” said the curator, cheerfully, joining the rest of the party. “I reckon we can stay alive for three weeks in this country! And we ought to have something to tell about when we get back here. Paradisea superba, the superb bird of paradise, is what we particularly want; also an accurate report on the mineralogy of this region.”

They picked their way up over clinking bits of old broken coral, aiming for the high ground above the source of the stream. Skirting along this for some distance, they soon found that it was a small, flat table-land of some ancient coral growth, back of which was the real jungle. The sparse soil was grown with stunted seaside palms and various species of ironwood and lignum-vitæ. Through it the stream cut on its way from the interior. The curator had about decided to establish camp here until the region could be investigated before going farther, when a cry from Nicky aroused them. It came from farther upstream.

“This way, fellows!” it called; “here’s something interesting!”

They followed the call, to pitch down the coral bank to a small beach by the stream-side, clear of mangroves. An abandoned outrigger sail canoe lay hauled up on the shore. The coral flat had protected it from the moist jungle rot, but its weatherbeaten planks showed that it had been there for several years.

“A crocodile slipped into the water as I came down here, and found—this,” announced Nicky. “It looks like a Ceram or Salwatty boat to me. See the single mast and the two bamboo outriggers.”

She was about twenty-five feet long, with a bamboo platform overhanging the body of the canoe on each side astern, its outer edges guarded with stout bamboo rails. The body was of flat, hewn planks, built up on a wide keel hollowed from a single log. The New Guinea boats were all made of one or more log canoes, hollowed out of a single log, they knew; this canoe came from Ke’ or Ceram, but of its history there was not a trace. The sail, of woven cotton, still lay wrapped around its yards. Two lengths of bamboo, about twenty feet long and six inches thick, formed the floating outriggers, which were lashed to bow-shaped hardwood spars notched across the gunwales. All her rattan lashings were in as good shape as the day she was made.

An involuntary shiver of apprehension went over the party. Others had come—and never returned!

“Some poor devils ventured in here after paradise birds and got eaten, I presume,” said the curator. “It’s a cinch they never got back! We’ll adopt her. We may need her some day! Here’s good water and dry ground, fellows! Let’s camp here and collect within easy distance until we know the lay of the land. And we’ll all keep together for the present, boys,” he ordered, meaningly.

The parangs got busy, and soon a space was cleared in the underbrush where the two tent flys of the boys and the curator’s hammock could be swung. Sadok disappeared into the jungle, whence the sound of his chopper soon came, and presently he returned to camp, bearing a long green pole of bamboo across his shoulders. This he notched with footsteps cut above each joint, and the pole was then laid upright in the fork of a small ironwood tree. Up it the curator climbed, to look out over the country.

“That was some look-see, boys!” he announced, coming down from the pole. “The mountains lie right near us, to the right, with a strip of deep jungle, about half a mile wide, beginning just beyond this table of coral land. We’ll have to go through it with compass and parang. This stream comes down from a notch in the mountains, with some high grass plateaus shelving out from their sides. It’s a great country, and I doubt if anyone finds us for a time yet. I did not see a sign of a hut or a village. It’s safe to collect anywhere on this coral ground, I think. And there are thunderheads coming over the mountains to the west right now, so make your tents secure for the night and cook whatever you’re going to before the rain comes.”

Nicky did not care to eat just then, so he set out on an exploring trip. For some distance he poked along, slowly, above the course of the stream, starting at every rustle of big land crabs scuttling for their holes in the underbrush. The growth of tangled ironwoods was so thick that he had to hack with his parang to get even through the thinnest vistas. He moved slowly along, the thrill of being alone in an unknown land peopled with savage cannibals putting his nerves on edge. He recalled stories of how the Outanatas did not eat a man whole, like the South Sea Islanders, but had a playful way of cutting off a leg and binding up the stump, saving the man for further feasts while they ate the leg before his eyes; and how, last year, six Javanese had been suddenly decapitated by the Tugeri, just inside the barbed wire of the Dutch fort at Merauke, and how—

Brrrrumm!—right behind him! It might have been the grunt of a wild boar: it might have been—anything! Nicky jumped, whirling in the air, electrified with fear, and landed on his feet with gun cocked and staring eyes. Nothing whatever was visible. The dense brush was as silent and inscrutable as the Sphinx. Trying to quiet his pounding heart, the boy began to turn cautiously around, when—Brrrruuumm! right behind him again! He whirled about, angry this time, looking with all his eyes for something to shoot at.

Brruum!—Brrumm! The sound seemed to come from overhead, and, looking up, Nicky saw a large air plant, its blatant flowers in showy profusion—and hovering in front of them was a large tropical humming bird!

The revulsion was too great! The boy threw back his head and yelled with hysterical laughter.

“Frightened to death by a humming bird!” he whooped. “Yow-yowri! Well, it’s time I shoved along and accomplished something!”

He pushed his way through the thickets, defiantly now, hoping that something would turn up worth shooting at. Presently he came to a little open glade grown up with saw grass, with a small pond in the center of it. As he burst through the thicket two animals rose up out of the grass across the pond and went jumping off, sailing over the yellow field in long leaps that carried them twenty feet to the bound. Nicky did not have to be told that they were wallabys, the New Guinea species of kangaroo. He whipped out his long-barreled Officer’s Model and poised its fine sights on the rearmost wallaby. He had learned through long practice that his revolver was as good as a rifle at any range up to seventy-five yards, if well handled, and he depended on it for all big game. As the gun barked, the wallaby pitched down, rolling over and over like a rabbit in the saw grass, its long hind legs kicking convulsively. The other wallaby soared in a frantic series of hops, and reached the jungle before the wavering sights of the revolver could be steadied on it.

Nicky started to dash through the grass around the pond after his prize, but the sudden soar of a small animal like a flying squirrel, but much larger, brought him to a full stop. It had left the topmost branches of a tall thorn tree on the edge of the jungle and had volplaned downward in a long flight across the opening. Nicky’s ready shotgun sprang to shoulder and he covered it in full flight and pulled trigger. The creature fell into the grass as he blew the smoke from his barrel and slipped in another shell. A single step forward developed more life, for a large green grasshopper like a katydid sprang from its depths, made a short flight, and lit near by. It had a peculiar shield like a leaf curved backward over its head. Nicky whipped off his helmet to capture it, for he recognized the great shielded grasshopper of New Guinea and he knew that Dwight would want it.

He crept forward stealthily, when his eye was attracted by the bright flash of orange and black where a medium-sized bird was hopping from branch to branch in the thicket to his right. One glance at the quantity of long feathers of an intense orange hue that adorned its neck told him that it was the rare paradise oriole, closely allied to the true paradise birds and a specimen of the utmost value to the curator.

Nicky raised his gun, embarrassed at all these sudden riches of natural history that surrounded him. It occurred to him that this little pond bore all the aspects of the African water hole, in that it attracted wild life as a sort of center, and that he could spend a long time right here without beginning to exhaust its possibilities. As the gun barked the bird fell tumbling through the thicket and the boy reloaded, wondering what new marvel would develop at his very next step. Then the grasshopper claimed his attention. It had made another short flight. This time the helmet scooped him in. He paused a moment to wonder over the remarkable camouflage that nature had provided for this insect, for the shield resembled a green leaf so closely that a passing hornet or bird, which were its chief enemies, would be completely deceived.

In lieu of a better place to put it, Nicky pinned it on his helmet and then resolutely trailed through the grass to find the small flying creature that he had shot, unmindful of the quantities of insects that he had stirred up, the very number and diversity of which would have driven Dwight into a frenzy.

“Must tell the old scout about this!” muttered the boy. “He’d camp here a week! Ought to be something in my line, too, around this water. Heigho! What in the dickens is this?” he exclaimed, picking up the animal. It looked like an opossum, but it had broad furry membranes extending from fore to hind leg exactly like our own flying squirrel.

“Flying opossum, by ginger!” cried the boy, for he had of course read up on all the natural history of New Guinea that is known. He examined the curious creature with all the sensations of the true naturalist. It is a far different thing to read of these examples of nature’s marvelous diversity, than to actually handle and examine the creatures themselves. Like all but two of New Guinea’s mammals, this was a marsupial, a reminder of that far time when all of Papua, Australia, and the adjacent islands connected by the shallow sea was one vast continent, entirely separated from Asia by deep sea. Why did this continent evolve marsupials in every form of animal life, even the bear and the wolf? Here was the counterpart of our flying squirrel, with the same protective capacity to fly, but a marsupial and by structure most closely allied to the opossums. It was surely a brave conundrum!

He retrieved the paradise oriole and started out to the pond again, but a sharp hiss in the grass stopped him like an electric shock. A black and mottled snake rose threateningly, with steely tongue quivering from its mouth. Nicky recoiled, shielding his eyes with his arm, for he had recognized with a shock of loathing fear the dreaded death adder of Papua, which can spit poison with considerable accuracy for more than six feet. He backed off rapidly, watching the snake narrowly, for he knew that it would attack with great swiftness, blinding his eyes before striking. Then his shotgun sprang to shoulder as the snake moved toward him through the grass, and he pulled trigger as its horned head appeared for an instant over the tubes. Out of the mist of smoke and the confusion of the recoil Nicky had time to realize but one thing—that head was still weaving toward him with the speed of an express train! It would not do to aim the gun again and so expose his eyes. He turned to fly, dropping his gun and tugging frantically at his parang. As it flashed from its wooden sheath he made a swift backhand slash with it, urged by the imminent horror of the snake being close behind him. He felt the parang’s blade cut bone, and at the same instant something soft and wet struck the back of his neck and a hot, irritating pain seared his flesh. Putting up his hand as he ran, he found his fingers covered with a pale yellow fluid that burnt where it touched. Nicky stopped at the thicket and faced about. A violent thrashing of coils in the grass behind him, now flashing up the white belly, now the mottled back, told him that he had beheaded the adder. He went back cautiously, for he appreciated now that the borders of that pond would be alive with snakes. He got to water finally, and began washing strenuously. The pain still kept up, however, and he could feel a large blister raising on the skin of his neck.

“I must get back to camp quickly, where the curator can paint me with iodine!” he muttered to himself. “What would happen if I should faint here in the jungle!”

He found the head of the death adder and wrapped it in his handkerchief and tied it to his belt. The body was about eight feet long. Dragging it over to the thicket, he hung it on a bush and then skirted around, keeping a sharp watch at his feet, and finally came out to the body of the wallaby.

It was very like the great gray kangaroo of Australia, but much smaller and reddish in color. He swung it over his shoulder and retraced his steps to the thicket. Tying the long body of the adder to his belt, he pushed for camp. He felt dizzy and weak, and sick at the stomach, and his neck burnt like a fire. Staggering on, he sought the thinnest openings in the brush and so unconsciously retraced his steps; but the briers tore at him and his burden with maddening tenacity and he steadily grew weaker and weaker. At last the welcome sound of voices and chopping came to his ears, and with a last burst of endurance he drove through the thickets and fell forward limply, just over the edge of their clearing.

The curator dropped his microscope and notebook and ran over, followed by Dwight, who had heard his startled exclamation.

“Man, animal, or reptile?” giggled Dwight, looking down at the odd huddle of wallaby, snake, and boy that was Nicky.

“Cut it, and call Sadok and Baderoon! Quick!” snapped the curator, sharply. “Something has happened to him. Nothing is ever trivial in this jungle, Dwight!” He pulled off the wallaby as he spoke, and his eyes fell at once on the red scar on the back of Nicky’s neck. He examined it carefully, but no sign of fangs was visible.

“Go get the medicine kit!” he barked, as Dwight left on the run. Baderoon came up, and his eyes opened as they lit on the body of the snake.

“Koikoim meten!” he gasped, horror-stricken. “Me go find’m taboo for him—quick! Boy him die!” He dashed off into the jungle. Sadok bent over, shaking his head. The snake was unfamiliar to him and he could do nothing. Dwight returned with the medicine kit and the curator painted the spot with iodine, but it seemed to have no effect. Nicky was in a kind of swoon, from which all efforts, even brandy, failed to arouse him. Faces lengthened as the minutes went by with no improvement. Finally Baderoon emerged from the jungle, carrying a spray of some kind of plant.

“Me find’m taboo!” He grinned cheerfully. He crushed the weed in his hands and rubbed the juice on the spot, kneading it in and crooning a wild Papuan chant the while. After some five minutes of it, which seemed like five weeks to the white men looking on, Nicky opened his eyes.

“Gee! I could—write a—fine story—about this!” he sighed, weakly. “I’ve been conscious all the time,” he went on, more strongly as Baderoon kept up his vigorous kneading, “but for the life of me I could not move anything. Seemed to be kind of paralyzed. Baderoon—you’re a brick!” he cried, grasping the mop-haired Papuan’s horny hand.

“Orang-kichil [little chief] all right? Me make’m koikoim debbil-debbil!” he grinned, kneading steadily and applying more of the pale-green plant juice.

Nicky told them all about it as he steadily grew stronger, and finally he sat up and undid the handkerchief holding the snake’s head. “It’s a fine specimen, all right, though!” he maintained, stoutly. “Baderoon, you fix’m koikoim’s—isn’t it?—koikoim’s head, and we’ll save the whole of him for mounting. Me for a sleep for a thousand years!”

They got Nicky tucked away for the night and his tent fly secured down strongly like a wedge tent, for great plashes of raindrops were beginning to fall and the rolling thunder came nearer and nearer down the mountains. Then came the roar of the rain, and bright, vivid flashes of lightning rent the twilight.

Sadok and Baderoon moved their mats under the curator’s hammock fly, while rain drove in sheets through the tropical night. It was furious while it lasted, but by eight o’clock the storm had died to distant mutterings far back in the interior, and a pitch blackness ensued. Then the stars came out, and in the moist, steaming stillness the camp went off to sleep for their first night in the New Guinea jungle.