Roland and Dick had their own reasons for taking such strict precautions.
The first day passed without a single adventure worth relating.
The paddlers or peons, of whom there were seven on each side of our hero's huge canoe, worked together well. They oftentimes sang or chanted a wild indescribable kind of boat-lilt, to which the sound of the paddles was an excellent accompaniment, but now and then the captain would shout: "Choorka--choorka!" which, from the excitement the words caused, evidently meant "Sweep her up!" and then the vessel seemed to fly over the water and dance in the air.
Other canoe captains would take up the cry, and "Choorka--Choorka!" would resound from every side.
A sort of race was on at such times, but the Burnley Hall, as Roland's boat was called, nearly always left the others astern.
Dinner was cooked on shore, and nearly everyone landed at night. Only our heroes stuck to their boat.
There were moon and stars at present, and very pleasant it was to sit, or rather lie, at their open-sided cabin, and to watch these mirrored in the calm water, while fire-flies danced and flitted from bush to bush.
But there was always the sorrow and the weight of grief lying deep down in the hearts of both Roland and Dick; the ever-abiding anxiety, the one question they kept asking themselves constantly, and which could not be answered, "Shall we be in time to save poor Peggy?"
Mr. Peter slept on shore.
Brawn kept him company. Kept untiring watch over him. And two faithful and well-armed Indians lay in the bush at a convenient distance.