“Yes.”
“Too bad! But come on, or those monkeys and the canoe will be gone.”
For the moment the bite of the spider, though smarting hotly, was forgotten and side by side they continued along the watercourse until they reached an inlet. Close to the river this inlet was all of fifty feet across and they had to make a long detour in order to avoid the many bog holes with which it was surrounded. All this took time and when they reached the Orinoco again the canoe with its load of monkeys was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s gone!” burst out Mark. “I can’t see the canoe anywhere.”
“Perhaps they are already around the bend,” suggested Frank. “Let us try for a short cut. It’s our only chance.”
As he spoke he kept whipping his hand in the air, showing the pain he was suffering. Already the skin around the bite was beginning to swell.
“It’s too bad, Frank,” said Mark, sympathetically. “Put some soft mud on it. I’ve heard that is good for bee and spider bites,” and his chum did as suggested. This lessened the pain but the swelling steadily continued.
On they went through the jungle, keeping close together, for here it was darker than ever. Both thought they knew the course they were pursuing and that they would regain the stream at a point half a mile below where they had left it. They made no allowance for the fact that it is the easiest thing in the world to become completely turned around in any dense mass of growth where one has to turn this way and that in order to make progress of any sort. Old hunters are often bothered even in woods which they think they know thoroughly.
A half mile was covered when both came to a halt in dismay. Instead of sighting the Orinoco they found before them a cliff of rocks twenty to thirty feet in height.
“Hullo, we’ve made a mistake!” burst out Mark.