“No, Winthrop, the dirt you see is washed into the Gulf from the Orinoco, which has a number of mouths in this vicinity, as well as mouths emptying directly into the Atlantic.”
Before nightfall they came in sight of the port and dropped anchor in the roadstead, for the harbor of Port-of-Spain is too shallow to admit the passage of large vessels. Soon a small craft came alongside and took them ashore.
“We are in an English country sure enough,” declared Mark. “See how many English there are. It does one good to hear the language spoken again.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in the town,” said Professor Strong. “It looks so beautiful from a distance. It is very dirty, and many of the houses are little better than huts. Of course the English that are here live well enough. It is the native element that is away behind the times.”
Nevertheless, the party managed to find a comfortable hotel, kept by a whole-souled son of Great Britain, who rejoiced in the name of Wellington Cunningham.
“Glad to know you,” said Wellington Cunningham. “Make yourselves at ’ome. So you are bound for the upper Orinoco, eh? Take my hadvice and stay away from the bloody country. Hi know hall habout it, Hi do. Went there in ’87 and halmost died of the bloody fever. Hit ain’t fit for a white man. If the fever gets you you’re a corpse.”
“That’s cheerful,” was Mark’s comment. “But we are not going to stay very long.”
“Better not go. Hif you want to see the world visit Hold Hingland. No better country on the globe.”
“No better?” queried Frank, with a wink at his chums. “What of the United States?”
“Too green, lad, too green. ’Twill be hall right henough when you ’ave the age,” responded Wellington Cunningham, solemnly.