This was a fascinating voyage. Great birds and beetles and bats swooped for the torch, and fled; fish leaped before the prow; and from the jungle on right and left harsh voices clamored in alarm. Charley, perched in the bows by the torch, which flared almost in his face, peered and listened. The ruddy light cut a little circle on the water, and shone on the dark, glistening forms of the two boatmen, and on the staring faces of Mr. Grigsby and Mr. Adams, sitting amidships.
The night seemed to be growing darker. Over the forest, on the right before, lightning was glimmering, and there was the low growl of thunder.
"Going to get wet," announced Mr. Grigsby. "It rains at least once every twenty-four hours, at this season."
Maria and Francisco exchanged a few sentences in Spanish and doubled their efforts. The dug-out surged along, but even when it was close to a bank the trees could scarcely be seen in the blackness.
"Well, Charley," called his father, "if we don't reach Peña Blanca (that was the next village, and the name meant White Rock) in time we are liable to get wet."
"Hark!" bade Mr. Grigsby. "Somebody's shouting."
Maria and Francisco had heard, also, for they rested on their paddles a moment, to listen. Again came the new sound—a shrill, prolonged cry wafting across the velvety river. Francisco looked back inquiringly at the two men amidships.
"Go over," said Mr. Adams, with motion of hand. "Somebody's hailing us."
Maria whooped loudly, and was answered. The dug-out turned, and slanted across the current.
Not a thing could be seen. The torch flared low, for a chill, damp breeze began to blow, in fitful fashion, heralding the storm. Maria whooped at intervals, and back came the cry in reply.