"And a handful of cartridges. And a handful wouldn't last a whole day with a boy on his own for the first time with a real rifle." For nearly twenty minutes they proceeded in silence, following a track recently made through the dense undergrowth. "Trouble is," remarked Beverley, "we've been acting like bulls in a china-shop on the previous stunt. If Dick left a trail we've obliterated it." "We have," admitted Villiers. "S'pose we weren't born trackers, any of us. It's like collaring a skilled woodcraft man and sending him afloat. He would be all at sea in a double sense." He stopped and swung the rays of the lamp upon a clump of palms. "I remember this spot," he continued. "Do you notice how curiously these trunks shoot up? A sort of kink in them. Merridew and his party took that path; we, if you recollect, bore away to the right, and Trevear and Claverhouse carried straight on. If we bear away to the left I fancy we'll be striking a fresh trail." There was a path of sorts. Whether any of the _Titania's_ crew other than Dick Beverley had traversed it remained for the present a matter for speculation. The ground was covered with the decaying vegetation of years and showed no trace of footprints, although the undergrowth on both sides gave indications of being forced aside. "Pigs, no doubt," commented Villiers, when Bobby called his attention to the trampled saplings. "Hallo! though; what's this?" The brilliant rays of the Aldis lamp lighted up a small glittering object. It was a cartridge-case. "Lee-Enfield, .303," declared Beverley, picking up and sniffing at the brass cylinder. "Fired recently; I can smell burnt cordite distinctly. We're on the trail." Twenty yards farther on the shelving ground was stained by a quantity of blood, the dark-red stain continuing at regular intervals. "Good enough," remarked Villiers. "Young Dick shot a pig and wounded it pretty badly. The brute got away and he followed it." "Hope to goodness it isn't Dick's blood," said Bobby anxiously. "The youngster might have put a bullet through his leg or arm by accident." "If so, he would have turned back," reasoned Jack; "no, it's a wounded pig's trail." Two hundred yards farther on they stumbled over the body of the victim of Dick's rifle. The animal was stone dead. On examination the two men discovered two bullet-wounds. One, a fairly-deep one in the pig's flank, had accounted for its comparatively long flight before collapsing through loss of blood. The other, obviously fired at close range, had passed completely through the pig's head. "So Master Dick, instead of administering the _coup de grâce_ in the orthodox manner, wasted another cartridge on the animal," commented Villiers. "The pig's been dead for at least three or four hours. Now, what's the next move?" The narrow path, evidently the "runway" of a porcine herd, terminated abruptly at what appeared to be a cul-de-sac. "He retraced his steps," declared Beverley.