CHAPTER IV.
IN THE COILS OF A BOA.
“Cross the mountains to Oroya, then go north to Huari, and in three days you will reach the great forest of cinchona trees,” repeated Hope-Jones, quoting old Huayno.
“Yes, but we have gone around Oroya, as advised by the superintendent,” said Ferguson.
“That’s why we have kept a northeast instead of a north course.”
“We should sight Huari to-morrow.”
“Yes. We should.”
It was the fifth day of their journey from Chicla, and they were plodding along in a rain, rubber coats buttoned close to the chin. The llama path was very narrow and wound in and out among tropic verdure. Everything was dripping with moisture, large drops rolling from palm leaves, bushes throwing spray as they were released after being pushed one side by the pedestrians, and the long grass wound around their stockings until they became wringing wet. It had been impossible to light a fire at noon, and so they had dined on strips of smoked venison.
“We must find some dry wood to-night and hang our clothing near a blaze,” said Harvey. The next minute he had darted ahead, then to one side.
“Remember rule number one!” called out Ferguson.
“All right,” came back the answer.