“Our native hunter’s out of luck, sir!” he muttered. “He’ll never be able to hit them from his tree, and if he misses one the whole flock will fly off. What’ll we do--shoot?” “Presently,” whispered the curator. “Go get Nicky, and we’ll each pick a bird and fire. They may fly over to the hunter’s tree yet, but I can see that they’re all as suspicious as our own crows. The tree they are in seems to suit them all right.” Another male flew in as he spoke, and the whole tree top was filled with hopping, flashing flames of golden color, a sight in itself that was worth traveling many miles to see. Dwight soon returned, with Nicky crawling behind him, and the three lay and watched the birds, far overhead. “Well, boys, I guess we’d better fire,” said the curator, at length. “That native may try to shoot from his tree and spoil the whole thing. Dwight, you pick a female, and Nicky and I will each get one of the males, and then we’ll do what we can with the other barrel.” They raised their guns and were about to shoot, when one of the male birds silently loosed his hold and came tumbling down! “Wait! Sadok!” whispered the curator, restraining them energetically. “I’d quite forgotten about him and his sumpitan!” Another bird fell. Somewhere, deep in the jungle, that silent, deadly blowgun in Sadok’s hands was bringing them down. At long intervals two more birds fell, and then there was a slight _tock!_ in the branches and they could see through the glasses the short dart sticking in the bark. The other birds raised alarmed cries at it and prepared to fly. “Now!” cried the curator. “Get a couple of females!” The guns barked as the startled birds took wing, while two dull-colored hen birds and another male came tumbling down. Then they all rushed over to pick up the specimens. The native hunter came dropping hurriedly down out of his tree, gave them one wild look of terror, and bolted incontinently into the forest, shrieking an unintelligible gibberish as he ran. Baderoon burst into a yell of laughter and tumbled on the ground with merriment. “Now _what_ in the dickens ails _him_?” grinned the curator, looking after the flying native from the bird in his hand. “Call him back, Baderoon.” “Taboo! _Yow-yowri!_ Bewitched! Debbil-debbil!” gasped Baderoon from the ground. “Him see plenty debbil-debbil! Bird, he go-dead--no see um arrow, no hear gun! Him no come back!” he cackled, squirming in an agony of mirth. “Get up, fool! Go catch’m!” ordered the curator, sternly, kicking the helpless negro to his feet. Baderoon ran off, still howling with delight. “He’ll never catch that coon in ten thousand years!” chuckled Nicky. “Sadok’s blowgun scared all the hair off his head. But--how are we going to get out of the jungle without him, though?” “We’ll camp right here,” declared the curator. “It’s always home wherever we are, and there’s lots to do.”