“Bravo! At the first shot!” yelled Hope-Jones, and jumping up, he ran forward, closely followed by the others.
“What shall we do now?” asked Harvey.
“Fortunately I hunted quite a little when a lad in the States,” said Ferguson, whipping out a long knife and cutting the animal’s throat. “In a half hour we can skin it,” he added.
“Say, fellows, I have an idea. What better place can we camp than here?” asked Hope-Jones.
They were near a grove of tall trees, the bark of which was white, and in marked contrast with the dense green foliage. These were the palo de sangre, or blood-wood of the upper Marañon, from which is taken timber of a red color that is fine-grained, hard, and receives a good polish. The trees were not many in number, but they arched over a little brook, and tall grass grew between the trunks.
“It’s a splendid spot,” replied Ferguson, “and I have another plan to add as an amendment to yours.”
“What’s that?”
“To remain here all to-morrow.”
“And lose a day?”
“No; I think we should gain thereby. I confess that I’m dead tired. The first day’s tramp always tells the most. Besides, we had a wearisome trip on the railroad, and for a week before leaving Callao we were continually on the jump. So a day’s rest from tramping will do us all good; but I don’t mean to idle away the time, for we can find plenty to do.”