Seven—Toi-pachmo
Eight—Tsai-pachmo
Nine—Ber-pela
Ten—Ber-beuncay
Eleven—Beri-beuncay-ber-hotai
Twelve—Beri-beuncay-toi-hotai, etc., etc., etc.
Twenty is simply Toi-bencai and beyond this few Leccos could go with certainty, while some were at sea even up to this point. Yet they had no difficulty in actual counting; it was simply over names for the higher numbers that they stumbled.
Once more we began the poling and dragging. This stretch of the river had given us no concern coming down, yet it was one of the hardest we encountered on the long pull up. One rock that jutted from the shore took my balsa an hour and a half to pass. Time and time again the vine parted and my Lecco and I were swept down with the current and around in the eddies, to repeat the process after we had paddled ashore and tried again.
In another place we had to work the balsa up into the very spray from a cataract only four feet high, but over which the river poured in a thunderous volume, then cast loose with one mighty shove, and paddle for the opposite bank, while in the meantime the balsa was being tossed in the bursting boils of water at the surface or spun and dragged like a chip by the whirlpools that floated with the current. Three times this swept my balsa half a mile below—only one balsa made the crossing at the first try—and it looked more than once as though we would be upset for an uncertain swim.
That night we made camp at Tiaponti. Here a new cane shack had just had the triumphant finish to a palm thatch roof and everyone in that little finca was already drunk. From somewhere we got one precious chicken for ourselves and the Lecco crews laid down to sleep, scarcely bothering the cook; they were so exhausted. It was the only time I ever saw any of them decline the opportunity for one of these festal drunks.