“We’re surely on the wrong course,” said Bob, glancing at his pedometer. “Three miles is farther than we went before. And we haven’t come to the spot where I dropped my gun yet. Suppose we go back and try another trail.”
Joe was willing, and they retraced their footsteps, at last coming to the place where the path branched.
“Suppose we try the one to the right,” suggested Joe, and they did.
But when, after a half-hour’s tramp, they made no more headway than before, they saw the futility of continuing on this trail. Again they went back and took another direction. And again they failed to come to Bob’s rifle. The youths continued the search for several hours, never ceasing. But each time they met with failure. The cruel Brazilian forest was not to be conquered by man.
Finally, exhausted and baffled to the extreme, they sat down on a decaying tree trunk. The stark truth had at last dawned on them. They were lost—lost in the wilds of Brazil!
CHAPTER XXIII
Terrible Cries of Savages
“OH, why did we have to wander so far away!” moaned Joe, rapidly losing his nerve. “We should have known better than to try to penetrate this endless jungle.”
Bob was equally touched, but he resolved to keep up hope. There was no use in tamely submitting to fear so soon. One more search might bring them to the river, and then it would be easy to find the boats.