running my trap line and my native boy helper said, "Listen Don Arturo, the old hound that followed us this morning has an animal in a tree over there in the jungle," and he pointed with his finger in that direction. Then distinctly yet faintly the sound came to my ears. The old hound was voicing the tree bark, that bark at regular intervals which was so familiar to me from coon hunting days in the States. I turned again to the dark skinned kid whose eyes were growing larger every minute and said, "Let us go," and we were off. This boy who was always a hundred yards behind me while running the trapline was right at my side and sometimes several paces ahead as we fought our way through the brush and over the ridges and into the deep ravines on the steep volcano slopes. Several times we paused to get our breath and get the direction of the baying hound. Once when we stopped on a steep slope a little bat flew out of a hollow log and was soon