“The river can’t be in this direction,” answered Frank. “We have got turned around somehow.”
“Well, the river ought to be on our right.”
“So it had. Let us turn in that direction.”
Again they went on, fairly tearing their course through the entangling vines and over the rough roots of trees, sprawling in all directions.
“I—I can’t go much further,” panted Frank. “I—I’m out of wind.”
“I’m pretty well blown myself,” was the reply. “But we ought to be close to the river. Shall I go ahead and look?”
“No! no! don’t leave me!”
Frank moved on again, tired as he was, and thus several rods more were covered.
“Water! The river!” cried Mark, and made a wild dash forward. But alas! it was not the Orinoco at all, only a long and shallow pool having apparently no outlet. Around the pool were a big flock of birds of every color imaginable, but the boys never thought to fire into the game.
“We are on the wrong tack again!” groaned Mark. “I don’t believe the river is anywhere near here.”