Gathering the saplings under one huge arm he ran,
lumberingly, into the jungle. He would not leave
evidence of the havoc he had wrought; the fear of the
bull whip was still strong upon him. The green foliage
closed about him and the peaceful jungle gave no sign
of the horrid brute that roamed its shadowed mazes.


As von Horn stepped into the campong his quick eye
perceived the havoc that had been wrought with the roof
at the east end of the shed. Quickly he crossed to the
low structure. Within its compartments a number of
deformed monsters squatted upon their haunches, or lay
prone upon the native mats that covered the floor.

As the man entered they looked furtively at the bull
whip which trailed from his right hand, and then
glanced fearfully at one another as though questioning
which was the malefactor on this occasion.

Von Horn ran his eyes over the hideous assemblage.

"Where is Number One?" he asked, directing his question
toward a thing whose forehead gave greater promise of
intelligence than any of his companions.

The one addressed shook his head.

Von Horn turned and made a circuit of the campong.
There was no sign of the missing one and no indication