CHAPTER XV.
To attempt a detailed description of Max's wanderings for the next few months would, even with the help of his diary, prove, I fear, a task altogether beyond my abilities. On the morning following the interview I have just described as taking place at Moreas' house, they embarked upon the train at a wayside station, a few miles out of Rio, and remained in it until they had proceeded as far as it was possible for the line to take them. Having reached the end of the construction, they alighted at a miserable village consisting of some twenty or thirty houses of the typical Brazilian type, and collected their impedimenta. Such stores and equipments as they intended carrying with them had already arrived, as also had the mules which had been purchased for the journey. Moreas, by virtue of being the only person who knew the secret, was duly installed as leader of the expedition; and, seeing that the day was too far advanced for them to make a start, he decided on remaining in the village that night, and proceeding as soon as it was light next morning. Being anxious to obtain as much information as possible concerning the track they were to follow for the next hundred miles, Moreas invited certain of the leading inhabitants to sup with them that night. This gave rise to a regular orgie. By midnight Moreas was decidedly intoxicated, while the two Spaniards were incapable of even sitting upright, so were stretched at full length upon the floor. Disgusted beyond measure with what he saw, Max left the room and passed into the verandah. There he found the Englishman, Bertram, smoking a cigar. He had taken a liking to the man, and cherished a belief that the feeling was reciprocated. "So you have had enough of it, too," said the latter as Max approached. "I couldn't stand any more of it, so I came out here."
"My case is very similar," answered Max. "It's a good thing this sort of thing is not likely to occur very often."
"I agree with you," returned the other. "Moreas and the Spaniards are very well when they are sober, but when they are drunk they are altogether impossible. Forgive me asking the question, but have you known Moreas very long?"
"A matter of two years," Max replied. "I met him first on the steamer that brought me out from England."
"Ah! I was right then," said Bertram, in a somewhat kindlier tone than he had yet spoken. "I felt certain that you were an Englishman when I saw you yesterday; and yet, do you know, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't altogether look like one."
"I'm not," said Max. "By birth I am a Pannonian, but I have lived in England since I was quite a youngster. You, of course, are English. There can be no sort of doubt about that."
"Am I so dreadfully insular, then?" the other inquired with a laugh. "I thought the knocking about the world I have had would have rubbed the edges off. Yes, I am an Englishman, I suppose, if ever there was one. I hail from Gainsthorpe, in Yorkshire. Do you happen to know the place?"
"I should think so," said Max, with sudden animation. "I've stayed there often."
After that they were both silent. The simple fact that they both happened to be acquainted with the same obscure village struck them as a marvellous coincidence; after a time, however, it became a bond that bound them very closely together. Later on, for some reason not altogether explainable, they left England, and talked of Brazil and life in South America generally. Of the subject upon which they were for the time being engaged they said nothing. They did not know each other particularly well yet, and both felt it would be safer to let it alone. Presently Moreas staggered into the verandah, stared wildly about him for a few seconds, as if he were looking for some one, and then reeled towards them.