In the meantime, the three boys on the Rambler were becoming a bit restless, and not a little anxious too. The Brazilian night was dark, and there was a whisper of wind in the trees. The water lapped the shores and the sides of the boat unceasingly, as if uttering a warning to them to be up and away. It was almost unbearably hot, too, for they were nearly under the equator.
“I think I know what the kid is thinking about when he talks of a cargo,” Alex said, presently. “He has often talked to me about gathering Brazil nuts and taking a load out to some shipping point. They bring good prices in New York.”
“Do you mean these three-cornered nuts?” asked Jule.
“Sure! The ones you whittle the shells from with a knife, and find a solid, triangular piece of meat on the inside. They grow in big clusters which look like hornets’ nests, and they break open the heads of the Indians when they fall from the tree. A ton would bring nearly $400 in Chicago, and that would help some, especially as we’ll probably get back there broke and hungry.”
“When did you take up Case’s role of prophet of evil?” asked Clay.
Alex laughed and said no more at that time.
“I’ve got a better guess than that,” Jule began, then. “He is going after rubber. They tap trees and a white sap runs out, and they cook the sap in smoke, over moulds, and make rubber coats. I’ll wager he’s got a cache of rubber in there.”
“I wonder where the rubber trees first came from?” asked Alex.
“Oh, they came down from the mountains.”
This from Jule, who had been reading books about South America all the way down—books presented by Captain Joe.