In the afternoon they reached the little harbor where they were to buy gasoline. When, after some haggling and unnecessary delay, the motors were started again, Clay looked very sober.
“We’re broke,” he announced. “If we get any more gasoline we’ve got to earn it, in some way.”
To the credit of the boys be it said that they received the announcement with due gravity, but refused to be much depressed by it. They declared that they could earn more money, never stopping to think that they were in South America and not in Chicago!
Straight to the west the mighty river lay, stretching to the blue skyline. They passed the Trombetas on the third day, and towards night came to the Madeira, into which Frank, who was at the wheel, directed the prow of the Rambler.
“Where might you be going, Frank?” Jule asked as, after half an hour, the boy turned the Rambler into a little creek perhaps five miles away from the mouth of the Madeira. “Which of the big streams that met back a ways is the Amazon?”
“This is the Madeira,” Frank replied. “It is not as long as the Amazon, but it is some river for all that. I don’t know that this creek has any name, but that won’t prevent us tying up for the night here. I’ve a sort of affection for this place. You see, boys,” he added, a grim smile on his face, “I stopped here on the way down from Peru. I wasn’t exactly looking for sport here, either! While here at that time, I saw something that caused me to think we might pick up a cargo here now—something we can turn into gasoline and such tinned goods as we need. From now on, of course, we can get most of our food from the river and forest, as fish and game are plenty. I’ll show you our dessert, directly.”
The Rambler was soon anchored for the night in the creek, but the boys did not build a “cook” fire on shore, as the wild tangle of undergrowth came down to the edge of the creek. While Case was frying bacon and eggs and making coffee, Frank went ashore in the row-boat, “after dessert,” he said, the motor boat having been anchored at least thirty feet from the bank. When he returned he carried an armful of green, tough-looking things, each weighing not far from two pounds. He passed one to each of his chums and sat grinning as they made cautious examinations and asked questions about the “fruit.”
“They are custard apples,” he said, after the boys had guessed for a time. “The natives call ’em chirimoya. Some of them weigh ten pounds. See, it is a pie, already made,” he added, breaking open one of the “apples.”
Inside was a delicious soft pulp, thickly sown with black seeds. It reminded the boys of the Indiana pawpaw. Jule said it was a banana, pine-apple, pear and strawberry all in one. Several were consumed that night and more collected for the next day.
“Besides these,” Frank said, opening a second “apple pie,” as he called it, “we’ll find something worth while here.”