“She’s rather too big for us, Nat,” said my uncle, “and I hope they will have no accident when they lower her down.”
“Oh, I hope not, uncle,” I said.
“So do I, my boy, but they were clumsy enough in getting her on board. However, we shall have troubles in plenty without inventing any.”
We stood together, leaning over the side and talking about our plans, which were to collect any new and striking birds that we could find, while specially devoting ourselves to shooting the quetzals, as they were called by the natives, the splendid trogons whose plumes were worn by the emperors of the past.
“And I’m not without hope, Nat,” said my uncle, “that in course of our journeys up in the mountains, in the parts which have not yet been explored, we may find the Cock of the Rocks. I see no reason whatever why those birds should not inhabit suitable regions as far north as this. It is hot enough in Central America, as hot as Brazil, and far hotter than Peru.”
“What about humming-birds, uncle,” I said.
“We shall find plenty, and perhaps several that have never before been collected; but we must not want ordinary specimens. We must not overload ourselves, but get only what is choice.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the coming of the captain, who looked at us searchingly.
“Well, doctor,” he said; “been thinking it all over?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Dick, quietly.