Then in the hot noon when no breath of wind stirred, suddenly the end came.

Suddenly that mighty bole seemed to crumble; suddenly those far-reaching arms were thrown together as their support failed, gripping at each other like living things, flogging the air, screaming in their last agony, and with an awful wailing groan sinking, a tumbled ruin, to the earth.
Silence again, and in the midst of the silence Jeekie's cheerful voice.
"Old tree go flop! Glad he no flop on us, thanks be to Little Bonsa.

Get on, you lazy nigger dog.

Who pay you stand there and snivel?
Get on or I blow out your stupid skull," and he brought the muzzle of the full-cocked, double-barrelled gun into sharp contact with that part of the terrified porter's anatomy.
Such was the forest.

Of their march through it for the first four days, there is nothing to tell.