“Senor Beecher,” said the Indian, adding, in Spanish, that he lived in the vicinity and had only lately been engaged by the young professor who hoped to discover the idol of gold before Tom’s scientific friend could do so.

Tom and Ned knew a little Spanish, and with that, and simple but expressive signs on the part of the Indian, they learned his story.  He had his palm-thatched hut not far from the Beecher camp, in a small Indian village, and he, with others, had been hired on the arrival of the Beecher party to help with the excavations.  These, for some reason, were delayed.

“Delayed because they daren’t use the map they stole from us,” commented Ned.

“Maybe,” agreed Tom.

The Indian, whose name, it developed, was Tal, as nearly as Tom and Ned could master it, had left camp to go to visit his wife and child in the jungle hut, intending to return to the Beecher camp at night.  But as he passed through the forest the jaguar had dropped on him, bearing him to earth.

“But you saved my life, Senor,” he said to Tom, dropping on one knee and trying to kiss Tom’s hand, which our hero avoided.  “And now my life is yours,” added the Indian.

“Well, you’d better get home with it and take care of it,” said Tom.  “I’ll have Professor Bumper come over and dress your scratches in a better and more careful way.  The bandages we put on are only temporary.”

“My wife she make a poultice of leaves—­they cure me,” said the Indian.

“I guess that will be the best way,” observed Ned.  “These natives can doctor themselves for some things, better than we can.”

“Well, we’ll take him home,” suggested Tom.  “He might keel over from loss of blood.  Come on,” he added to Tal, indicating his object.

It was not far to the native’s hut from the place where the jaguar had been killed, and there Tom and Ned underwent another demonstration of affection as soon as those of Tal’s immediate family and the other natives understood what had happened.

“I hate this business!” complained Tom, after having been knelt to by the Indian’s wife and child, who called him the “preserver” and other endearing titles of the same kind.  “Come on, let’s hike back.”

But Indian hospitality, especially after a life has been saved, is not so simple as all that.

“My life—­my house—­all that I own is yours,” said Tal in deep gratitude.  “Take everything,” and he waved his hand to indicate all the possessions in his humble hut.

“Thanks,” answered Tom, “but I guess you need all you have.  That’s a fine specimen of blow gun though,” he added, seeing one hanging on the wall.  “I wouldn’t mind having one like that.  If you get well enough to make me one, Tal, and some arrows to go with it, I’d like it for a curiosity to hang in my room at home.”

“The Senor shall have a dozen,” promised the Indian.

“Look, Ned,” went on Tom, pointing to the native weapon.  “I never saw one just like this.  They use small arrows or darts, tipped with wild cotton, instead of feathers.”