The free tip of the root was swaying to and fro, like the head of a blindworm. Even as Armstrong stared in chilled amazement it writhed up from the ground and curled back toward his foot. With a startled exclamation he jumped away. The root-tip sank quickly down and lay motionless again.
Whaley and Armstrong looked at each other, at the root, and at the retreating bearers.
"I call it odd," said Armstrong after a moment, in a voice that quivered ever so slightly. "Something to tell about back home, what?"
"Best leave it alone, old man," counseled Whaley. "Suppose we see what's for supper."
They ate in the gathering gloom, ate silently. In silence they smoked their pipes. The usual singing and laughing of the bearers were subdued also. Whaley noticed Armstrong's nervous fidgeting, wondered what to say, and said nothing. A dry rustle in the grass attracted their attention.
"What's that?" demanded Armstrong sharply. "A snake?"
"Let's have a look-see," suggested Whaley, taking the lantern from the tent-pole. "Dashed unpleasant things, snakes. Bring along the gun—it might be a big one."
But they found no snake, and the bearers, called to help look, said that there were few snakes in this part of the country. Finally the two whites returned to the fire to resume their smoking. Armstrong muttered, twitched and finally broke the silence.
"It's all nonsense, and I say it once for all."
"What's all nonsense? What do you mean?" asked Whaley, though he knew well enough.
"This beastly root business. It gets on my nerves. I can't forget it. When it writhed under my foot—ugh! My flesh crept."
"Don't try to worry it out," Whaley said. "You'll only go batty trying to explain it."
At that Armstrong jumped up, reached into the tool-box just inside the tent and grabbed a hand-ax. With this he strode away toward the trail.
"Don't be a silly ass, man," called Whaley, following him. "What are you going to do?"
"Going to cut that root out," flung back Armstrong. "I've bothered about it quite enough. I shan't sleep tonight, not while the thing's there."
"It's just on your nerves, Armstrong," said Whaley. "I tell you, it's nothing. Just a funny-looking plant that rustled when you kicked it.—Hm! What's this?"
They had come into the bend of the trail. The last rays of light showed them that there was no root there, no growing thing larger than a blade of grass, not even a hole to show where it might have been. The ax drooped in Armstrong's hand. The two stared at each other as the night rode down.
"Wood's scarce hereabouts," said Whaley in a low voice. "Perhaps the boys cut it up and used it for a fire."
Armstrong shook his head. "No, Whaley. You said yourself, and so did they, that it was a thing not to be touched."
They walked back to their camp. The brightness of the lantern shed a little comfort on them as they again sat in silence. "Bed?" suggested Whaley at last, and they entered the tent. "Now, forget"
"You're a topping fellow, Whaley, but I don't need babying," said Arm-
