Neither Dick nor Roland had any yarns to spin, but Charlie had stories of his wild and adventurous life in the bush, which were listened to with much pleasure. On the other hand, Rodrigo had been everywhere apparently, and done everything, so that he was the chief story-teller.
The man's English was fairly good, with just a little of the Peruvian labial accent, which really added to its attractiveness, while at times he affected the Mexican drawl.
Around the camp-fire I have seldom or never known what may be called systematic yarn-spinning. Everything comes spontaneously, one simple yarn or wild adventure leading up to the other. If now and then a song intervenes, all the better, and all the more likely is one to spend a pleasant evening either in camp or in galley on board ship.
Don Rodrigo did at times let our heroes have some tales that made their scalps creep, but they liked him best when he was giving them simple narratives of travel, and for this reason: they wanted to learn all they could about the country in which they now were.
And Rodrigo knew it well, even from Arauco on the western shore to the great marsh-lands of the Paraguay or the mountain fastnesses of Albuquerque on the east.
But the range of Rodrigo's travels was not bounded by Brazil, or the great Pacific Ocean itself. He had been a cow-boy in Mexico; he had bolo'd guanacos on the Pampas; he had wandered among the Patagonians, or on fleet horses scoured their wondrous plains; he had dwelt in the cities, or call them "towns", if so minded, that border the northern shores of the Straits of Magellan; he had even visited Tierra del Fuego--the land of fire--and from the black boats of savages had helped to spear the silken-coated otters of those wild and stormy seas; and he had sailed for years among the glorious sunlit islands of the Southern Pacific.
"As to far Bolivia," he said one evening, while his eyes followed the rings of pale-blue smoke he emitted as they rose to the tent-roof. "As to far Bolivia, dear boys, well, you've seen a good slice of the wilder regions of it, but it is to La Paz you must some day go, and to the splendid fresh-water ocean called the Titicaca.
"Lads, I never measured it, but, roughly guessing, I should say that it is over one hundred miles in length, and in some places fifty wide."
"Wait one moment," said Burly Bill, "this is getting interesting, but my meerschaum wants to be loaded."
"Now," he added, a few minutes after, "just fire away, my friend."