The centipede scare had been almost too much for Hockley, and he hardly ate a mouthful of the breakfast which the others prepared.
“It’s a nasty country—I’m sorry I came here,” he told Mark. “I expected a better time.”
“Well you are here and that’s the end of it,” was the simple answer. “But perhaps things won’t be so bad after we get used to it.”
“I thought it would be like hunting in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I once went out there and had a fine time, bringing down small game and fishing for trout. But that awfully big jungle—” Hockley did not finish, but his look of fear was more impressive than words.
However, the breakfast passed off pleasantly enough and inside of an hour all the boys were at the river bank, baiting their hooks under the direction of Cubara, who told them that he had once made his living as a fisherman.
“I catch de fish in de mountains,” he said. “Sell dem to de gold miners. Da no take time to fish, so pay big price.”
“I suppose the miners don’t care to do anything but hunt for gold,” remarked Frank.
“Hunt, hunt, hunt, night an’ day,” was the answer. “Some go ’way up de big mountains, stay dare many, many moons, come back, no gold, all crazy.”
“Crazy!”
“Yes, crazy, stay alone so long, no want dat to fish for him. He crazy, maybe he kill!” And Cubara shrugged his bony shoulders.