Through Forest and Stream | Page 9

the place seemed so wild that I don't think they could be anything else. We must take turn and turn to watch till daylight. You go and lie down."
"No, uncle," I said; "I'd rather stay and watch. What time is it?"
"About midnight, I should think," he said, pulling out the big old silver hunting-watch that accompanied him on all his travels, and holding it down in the full light from the fire. "Humph!" he ejaculated. "What time do you say?"
"Not much more than ten," I said decisively. "I had only just dropped asleep."
"It took you a long time to drop, then," he said drily. "Ah! Look at that bird. It will singe its wings directly."
"What time is it, then?" I said, for I was more interested in knowing how long I should have to watch in the darkness than in the flight of a bird.
"Like to know exactly, Nat?" said my uncle.
"Of course," I said, wonderingly.
"You shall, then, my boy. It's ten minutes, thirty seconds, past six."
"Nonsense, uncle!" I cried. "The old watch must have stopped. Did you forget to wind it up?"
For answer he held it to my ear, and it was ticking loudly, while as he lowered it and I glanced at the face, I could see that the second hand had moved some distance on.
"Do you think it is right?" I said.
"Yes; we were fagged out last night and slept very soundly. You'll soon know, for it will be daylight directly."
Both the watch and my uncle were right--for the scream of a parrot reached my ears soon after, followed by whistlings and pipings from the forest; while soon after a horribly harsh grating screech came from overhead, and I caught a glimpse of the bird which uttered it--one of the great long-tailed Aras, on its way with three or four more to a favourite part of the forest.
"Going figging, Nat," said my uncle, putting some more wood on the fire, not for the sake of the light--for away across the sea the dawn was brightening fast, after the way of sunrise and sunset in tropic lands; and even as I looked there, far on high, was a faint fleck of orange light on a tiny cloud. A few minutes later there were scores, and the birds were singing and chirping in all directions, even the sea furnishing the screams and peculiar cries of the various ducks and gulls.
"How glorious!" I said softly, for the beauty of the scene around in the glow of the morning light made me forget the darkness of the night and the terrors that it brought.
"Yes, Nat; we've hit upon birdland the first try," said my uncle. "But it seems as if we shall have to leave it unless we can be sure that the Indians are friendly."
As he spoke, we both examined the footprints again.
"Savage marks for certain, Nat," said my uncle. "Do you see? These fellows have not been in the habit of wearing shoes."
"Yes, I see," I replied. "The big toe so wide away from the others."
"You see that at a glance. I suppose it would be unwise to follow them; they would hear us coming, and might send a couple of arrows into us-- perhaps poisoned. It's a pity Nat; for there are plenty of birds about, and we could get some good specimens.--Yes; what is it?"
"They've been all along here, right down to the sea, uncle. See their tracks?"
"Yes; and I can see something else," he said, shading his eyes, and looking to right and left anxiously in the now broad daylight.
"What can you see?" I asked.
He pointed now, and I saw what he meant.
"The marks made by a boat," I said. "Why, uncle, they must have come in a canoe, and been attracted by our fire. Can you see their canoe?"
"No," said my uncle, after a long look round and away over the glittering waters. "But it's bad, Nat. They will not have gone far away, and will be coming back here in search of it."
"Then we shall have to take to the boat again and sail farther down the coast."
"We'd better get on board, my lad, certainly," said my uncle; "so let's roll up the tent, and--ah! look-out! Quick, lad--your gun!"
I was ready directly, cocked both barrels of my piece, my heart beating fast in the emergency--for the danger we dreaded seemed to be at hand.
CHAPTER FIVE.
A SURPRISE.
"Ahoy! Don't shoot," came from out of the dense jungle up the stream.
"Why, uncle," I cried, "that doesn't sound like a savage."
"It's worse, Nat," said my uncle. "There's a terribly English sound about it."
"Ahoy, I say!" came again. "Don't shoot!"
"Ahoy! who are you?" shouted my uncle.
"Don't shoot, and we'll come out," came in tones half smothered by the thick growth.
"We're not going to fire. Who are you, and what