on guard, watchfully alert against a sudden rush by some maddened

beast of the jungle. Beyond the fire, yellow-green spots of

flame appeared, moved restlessly about, disappeared and

reappeared, accompanied by a hideous chorus of screams and growls

and roars as the hungry meat-eaters hunting through the night

were attracted by the light or the scent of possible prey.

But to such sights and sounds as these the five men had

become callous. They sang or talked as unconcernedly as they

might have done in the bar-room of some publichouse at home.

Sinclair was standing guard. The others were listening to

Brady's description of traffic congestion at the Rush Street

bridge during the rush hour at night. The fire crackled cheerily.

The owners of the yellow-green eyes raised their frightful chorus

to the heavens. Conditions seemed again to have returned to normal.

And then, as though the hand of Death had reached out and touched

them all, the five men tensed into sudden rigidity.

Above the nocturnal diapason of the teeming jungle sounded a

dismal flapping of wings and over head, through the thick night,

a shadowy form passed across the diffused light of the flaring

camp-fire. Sinclair raised his rifle and fired. An eerie wail

floated down from above and the apparition, whatever it might

have been, was swallowed by the darkness. For several seconds

the listening men heard the sound of those dismally flapping wings

lessening in the distance until they could no longer be heard.

Bradley was the first to speak. "Shouldn't have fired,

Sinclair," he said; "can't waste ammunition." But there was

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