“What! for tanning?”
“Tanning! Ha! ha! No, no; Peruvian bark, that they make quinine of. Physic for fevers.”
“Oh! I see.”
“It’s very jolly, and he makes plenty of money; but I do get so tired sometimes. I should like to go to sea, or to travel, or something. I hate being always either at studies or keeping accounts. I wish I were going along with you.”
“To be killed by the Indians,” said Perry drily.
“I should like to catch ’em at it,” cried Cyril. “But I’d risk it. What an adventure, to go with your father to hunt out the places where the Indians buried the Incas’ gold!”
“My father did not say he was going in search of that,” said Perry.
“No; he’s too close. But that’s it, safe enough; you see if it isn’t. Only think of it—right up in the grand valleys, where it’s almost dark at mid-day, and you walk along shelves over the torrents where there isn’t room for two mules to pass, and there are storms that are quite awful sometimes. I say, I’d give anything to go.”
“I wish you were going, Cil.”
“You do?” cried the boy excitedly. “I say: do you mean that?”