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Delcarte and Taylor came up a moment later, and the three of us worked over the

fellow, hoping to revive him that he might tell us what had happened, and what

had become of the others. My first thought was prompted by the sight I had

recently had of the savage native. The little party had evidently been surprised,

and in the attack Thirty-six had been wounded and the others taken prisoners.

The thought was almost like a physical blow in the face--it stunned me. Victory

in the hands of these abysmal brutes! It was frightful. I almost shook poor

Thirty-six in my efforts to revive him.

I explained my theory to the others, and then Delcarte shattered it by a single

movement of the hand. He drew aside the lion's skin that covered half of the

Grabritin's breast, revealing a neat, round hole in Thirty-six's chest--a hole that

could have been made by no other weapon than a rifle.

"Snider!" I exclaimed. Delcarte nodded. At about the same time the eyelids of the

wounded man fluttered, and raised. He looked up at us, and very slowly the light

of consciousness returned to his eyes.

What happened, Thirty-six?" I asked him.

He tried to reply, but the effort caused him to cough, bringing about a

hemorrhage of the lungs and again he fell back exhausted. For several long

minutes he lay as one dead, then in an almost inaudible whisper he spoke.

Snider--" He paused, tried to speak again, raised a hand, and pointed down-

river. "They--went--back," and then he shuddered convulsively and died.

None of us voiced his belief. But I think they were all alike: Victory and Snider

had stolen the launch, and deserted us.

The Lost Continent