But we had our one aim in view, and though we seemed as far off as ever, and there were moments when Uncle Dick and I began to doubt, our guide seemed so confident, pointing always onward, that we grew hopeful again, and went on and on.
“Do you know what Bill Cross says, Master Nat?” said Pete, when we were camping one evening.
“How should I?” I replied pettishly, for I was weary of the continuous paddling.
“Then, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Pete solemnly, “He says he feels cock-sure that them two brown ’uns is taking us to where their tribe lives, so that they may grab the boat and guns and things, and then light a fire and have a feast.”
“Eat us?” I said.
“That’s it, sir; the doctor says they must be Caribs, and Caribs is cannibals, and we ought to go back.”
“So we will, Pete,” I said, “when we have found the quetzals.”
It was the very next day that, after struggling a few more miles over shallows, the roar of water fell upon our ears, and the current gradually grew more swift, while that night with a good deal of pantomime our guide indicated that the boat could go no farther.
“As if we didn’t know that, Master Nat,” said Cross.
The consequence was that our craft was securely moored, the tent once more set up on shore, and after a good night’s rest we started off to explore the open wooded country around the beautiful falls close at hand.