So ended the chat about electric eels, the subject seeming exhausted. Then the conversation changing to other and less interesting topics, was soon after brought to a close. For the darkness was now down, and as their ponchos, and other softer goods had become thoroughly dry, there was no reason why they should not go to rest for the night. But since the soldier-cranes had declined coming back—by this time no doubt roosted in some far-off “cranery”—and no other source of food supply offering, they must needs go to bed supperless, as they did. Their appetites were not yet sufficiently sharp, to have an inordinate craving for meat.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Nothing for Breakfast.
Under the shadow of the algarobias the trackers sleep undisturbed. Ludwig, however, has troubled dreams, in which gymnoti play a conspicuous part. He imagines himself still floundering amidst these monsters, assailed from all sides by their galvanic batteries, and that they have dragged him down into the mud, where he is fast getting asphyxiated. When in his last gasp, as it were, he is relieved, by awaking from his uneasy slumbers; which he does suddenly, and with a terrified cry.
Finding it has been all a dream, and glad to think it so, he says nothing; and the others not having heard his half-stifled cry, soon again falls asleep. This time his slumber is lighter, as also more profound; and, on the whole, he has a tolerable night’s rest; in the morning feeling fairly refreshed, as likewise do Cypriano and Gaspar.
All three are astir a good half-hour before there is any sign of day; and their camp-fire is rekindled. This not for culinary purposes—since they have nothing to be cooked—but rather because the air is chilly cold, as it often is in the tropics, and they need to warm themselves before setting about aught else.
When warmed, however, they begin to think of breakfast, as also to talk about it. What is it to be, or of what consist, are the questions which interest them without being easily answered. There are the algarobia beans; but their skillet has been lost along with the kettle, and there is left them no utensil in which these legumes might be boiled. True, they can roast them in the ashes; but Gaspar still clings to the hope that something more toothful may turn up. As the early dawn is the best time to find wild animals abroad, both birds and quadrupeds—the best also for approaching them—the gaucho feels pretty confident either one or other will stray within reach of their guns, bolas, or lazos.
In the end it proves that his confidence has not been misplaced. Just as the first red rays of the Aurora are reflected from the tops of the trees around their camp, more faintly lighting up the lower level of the pampa beyond, Gaspar, peering through a break between the branches of the algarobias, sees a brace of large birds moving about over the plain. Not soldier-cranes, though creatures with necks and legs quite as long; for they are rheas.