Jacome took to the steppingstones first, moving in limber, catlike fashion as he left the boat. Mr. Whitman, who had settled low to offset the loss in weight, watched every move, still clutching the center of the rope, which also helped to steady the boat.
Hand over hand, Jacome followed the rope, swinging from one projecting rock to the next, or actually leaping a space where the water gushed through. It became easier as Jacome neared the bank where the pack boat was moored. There, Jacome swung on the shore and waved for Whitman to follow.
As before, Whitman rose too rapidly. This time, the boat skidded out from under him; as it did, he hopped to the nearest rock and balanced there by clinging to the rope. Biff saw the boat slide over the falls, tumbling from sight with the light luggage it contained.
Breathlessly, Biff watched Hal Whitman swing to the next broad stone, where he swayed dangerously while Mr. Brewster and Jacome, tightening their ends of the rope, helped to steady him. What had been child’s play for Jacome would have meant disaster for Whitman, without that timely aid.
The last leap, that looked the easiest, was the most dangerous of all. Where Jacome had swung himself clear up on the bank, Whitman dropped short, but not into the sweeping current that fringed the shore. Jacome had wisely edged the pack boat into the gap. Whitman landed on the luggage, and Jacome pulled him up to the bank above.
During the next few hours, the party worked its way down the steep walls that flanked the waterfall. This might have been impossible, except for the holds afforded by the heavy jungle growth. The boats were deflated and lowered by ropes. Then, when Biff and Kamuka reached the gorge, they found a shallow stretch where they waded and swam the river, to receive the luggage from the pack boat that Mr. Whitman and Jacome lowered from their side.
Farther downstream, the boys found Whitman’s boat, still intact, along with its baggage, which Jacome had tied inside the rubber craft before abandoning it. Biff and Kamuka hauled it ashore and spread the contents of the bags so they could dry.
That night, they camped within sound of the big waterfall, and the muffled roar seemed almost musical, now that its hazard had been passed. But Hal Whitman, seated by the campfire, spoke bitterly about his harrowing experience.
“I blame Joe Nara for all this,” he declared. “I believe he is our real enemy, not Nicholas Serbot.”
“How do you figure that, Hal?” inquired Mr. Brewster.