"Almost wish we'd carried on," he remarked at length. "At all events——"
A crumbling, swirling sound interrupted his remarks. The "jam" that had been steadily and almost silently mounting up for the last hour or more had suddenly given way. The pent-up waters had forced the barrier of logs from the rocks that had impeded their progress, and now in a smother of foam the accumulated floating timber was speeding on its way.
"No," continued Uncle Brian. "I think we'd better hang on where we are. We'll make a fire to cheer us up, though."
CHAPTER XII
"Caught Out"
It was easier said than done. The overnight conflagration had destroyed every vestige of brushwood. With the prospect of being leapt upon by a highly formidable jaguar or seized by a boa-constrictor already incensed by the proximity of a high-velocity bullet, it was not advisable to attempt to gather driftwood under the base of the low cliff. To attempt to fish pieces of floating brushwood from the river, when in the dim light it was a matter of impossibility to distinguish between a waterlogged tendril and a watersnake—and at the same time to present their backs to the lurking foe on the rocks—was also too risky a proposition.
"We'll have to sacrifice some of our petrol," decided Uncle Brian. "There's some cotton waste in the locker under the fore-deck."
The waste soaked in petrol was placed on the ground at a safe distance from the boat. A match was applied and the flames shot high in the air, accompanied by a hissing sound that could not be attributed to the combustion of the highly volatile spirit.
At intervals Peter replenished the fuel by the simple expedient of squirting petrol from a syringe. The flames were brilliant enough, but still the spluttering noise continued.