Morison was worthy of his little
Meriem. Slowly he turned toward a nearby tree. Leaping upward he
caught a lower branch and drew himself up among the branches. His
movements were cat-like and agile. High into the trees he made his
way and there commenced to divest himself of his clothing. From
the game bag slung across one shoulder he drew a long strip of
doe-skin, a neatly coiled rope, and a wicked looking knife. The
doe-skin, he fashioned into a loin cloth, the rope he looped over
one shoulder, and the knife he thrust into the belt formed by his
gee string.
When he stood erect, his head thrown back and his great chest
expanded a grim smile touched his lips for a moment. His nostrils
dilated as he sniffed the jungle odors. His gray eyes narrowed.
He crouched and leaped to a lower limb and was away through the
trees toward the southeast, bearing away from the river. He moved
swiftly, stopping only occasionally to raise his voice in a weird
and piercing scream, and to listen for a moment after for a reply.
He had traveled thus for several hours when, ahead of him and
a little to his left, he heard, far off in the jungle, a faint
response--the cry of a bull ape answering his cry.
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