They caught up with the lad in a minute, and found him standing under a clump of trees that were about fifteen feet in height and which had broad, flat tops. As they neared the spot a fragrance as of incense was borne to their nostrils through the rain.
“Here’s a feast after all the dried deer meat!” called the boy, who had hung his knapsack on a branch, placed his shot-gun against the trunk of the tree, and was already climbing.
“What is he after?” asked Hope-Jones.
“I’m sure I don’t know. What have you found, Harvey?” called Ferguson.
“Chirimoyas.”
“Then we’re in luck. My mouth waters at the very thought of the fruit. But I never saw the tree before,” he said, looking up at their young companion.
“The trees grow in plenty of places near Lima,” Harvey replied. “I recognized them at once from a distance. Here, catch!”
The fruit he dropped down was heart-shaped, green, and covered with black knobs and scales, much as is a pineapple, and was about two-thirds the size of the latter.
When Harvey had detached a half dozen he descended, and despite the inclement weather they sat down for a feast, this being the first of fruit or fresh vegetable they had tasted since leaving Chicla.
Although it was damp no rain fell on the place where they rested, for the broad leaves of the trees were so interlaced as to form a natural umbrella that made a perfect watershed.