“How can you tell that, Munday?” inquired the captain of the craft.
“How tell, patron? How tell day from night, the moon from the sun, fire from water? The Solimoës is there.” The Indian spoke with his arm still extended in the direction of the trees.
“We are willing to believe you,” rejoined Trevannion, “and will trust to your guidance; but pray explain yourself.”
“It’s all guess-work,” interpolated Tipperary Tom. “Ould Munday knows no more av fwat he’s talkin’ about than Judy Fitzcummons’s mother. I’ll warrant ye we come in from the t’other side.”
“Silence, Tom!” commanded his master. “Let us hear what Munday has to say. You have no right to contradict him.”
“Och, awance! An Indyen’s opinion prefarred before that ov a freeborn Oirishman! I wondher what nixt.” And as Tipperary completed his chapter of reproaches, he slank crouchingly under the shadow of the toldo.
“So you think the river is there?” said Trevannion, once more addressing himself to the Mundurucú.
“The Mundurucú is sure of it, patron. Sure as that the sky is above us.”
“Remember, old man! It won’t do for us to make any mistake. No doubt we’ve already strayed a considerable distance from the channel of the Solimoës. To go again from it will be to endanger our lives.”
“The Mundurucú knows that,” was the laconic reply.