Bentley guessed his thoughts. "I know every foot of the country, Jim," he said quietly. "We'll talk over our plans to-night. What have we got in the larder, Stewart?"
"I caught ane or twa fish this morning," answered that individual, smilingly. "I thought we might have some visitors to keep us company."
"And there's bread made from wild bananas," added Phil. "It's not half bad, though it will take you a little time to get accustomed to it."
Bentley pushed open the door, which was an airy contrivance composed of light saplings interlaced with long tendril forest growths, and it swung from above by stout plaited grassy cords.
"Enter, boys," he said, "and welcome, most heartily welcome, to the white man's dwelling in the mystic valley of the Never Never."
Mackay mechanically raised his hand to his head as he stepped between the portals, and a grunt of disgust forced itself from his lips when, instead of the hat he expected to find, a few muddy feathers broke off in his grasp. The boys, following close behind, saw the action and laughed, yet immediately proceeded to copy his example, so strong was the habit of civilization upon them.
The single large room within was bare, save for a rough logged table in the middle of the floor, and sundry rude but comfortable chairs which were scattered about.
"We sleep on the ground," explained Bentley; "we've never had the heart to attempt building proper bunks. Have you a match, Jim?"
Mackay sought in his pocket and produced the small corked bottle in which he carried his supply so that it might be preserved from damp, and Bentley, with a sigh of thankfulness, applied a light to a torch of fine fibrous sticks stuck in a crevice in the table. Bob watched him with many questions surging on his lips.