Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Sudden Check.
Days and days passed of sailing on and on over waters which grew more and more shallow. Brilliantly-coloured birds were shot and skinned: and an ample supply of fine turkey-like fellows made the men’s eyes sparkle as they thought of the rich roasts Dan would make at the evening’s camping-place to supplement the toothsome fish that were hauled in, flashing gold, silver, blue, and scarlet from their scales, whenever a line was thrown out astern.
Sometimes a shot was obtained at some fierce animal or loathsome reptile, whose pursuit and capture lent excitement to the trip and fully repaid the men for their labour at the oars when the wind went down.
The change from the brig to the boat seemed to give Sir Humphrey new life, and at the end of a fortnight he was thoroughly himself again, and ready to take his turn at an oar so as to rest the men, to fish, or to land on one or the other bank of the river in search of game for the cook or specimens for their boxes of skins.
“It’s glorious,” cried Brace, more than once.
“Would be,” said Briscoe, “if we could catch sight of the golden city.”
“You’ll only see it as I did,” cried Brace—“in a dream; but you can read about it when we get back home, in some book of imaginary travels.”
“Perhaps,” said Briscoe drily; “but I have more faith than you have, my fine fellow. Just wait and see.”
That afternoon a wide reach of the river was entered where the water shallowed so rapidly that all of a sudden a grating sound arose from under the foremost boat, and then came a shout from the captain to Lynton.