"There's another sort of cry, Frank," he remarked, presently.
"Yes, and although I couldn't say for sure, I believe it is made by a colony of monkeys, traveling through the woods at night," the other replied, after stopping to listen for a minute to the odd sounds.
"Monkeys!" cried Andy, smiling broadly. "Well, I declare I had forgotten that they have them all through the tropical regions around the Orinoco, the Magdalena and the Amazon. And so that's a menagerie traveling over the treetops, is it? Wish I could just get a look."
"Well, I don't think they're far away," remarked his chum.
"Not for me. I know when I'm well off. This camp looks good enough, without my wandering around in that awful place. Let 'em jabber, and the yellow cats snarl; but Andy Bird stays right at his fireside tonight."
"And I guess you're right," said Frank, as more noises arose all around them.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHEN FRANK STOOD GUARD.
Pretty soon things began to look fairly cheerful in that lonely glade situated in the heart of the tropical forest. A fine fire crackled and shot up its red flames, lighting up the opening in which the young aviators had so luckily alighted.
Andy was bending over the fire making a pot of coffee, for they had brought along with them the necessary cooking utensils, including a frying pan, not knowing how long they might be adrift in the wilderness, far from the domicile of any human being.