Jack had not forgotten the mysterious island in the equally mysterious lake amid the Andes, and twice during the year his memory had been refreshed by startling accounts given of the place by different parties that had visited the valley. These men had given it the name of the “Devil’s Waters,” not very inappropriately.
At the end of the year, it now being certain that the Peruvians were losing their hold on the province which comprised the territory in which they were located, Jack said to his companion:
“I am almost sorry to say that I shall make my last trip to-morrow, Plum.”
“Going back to nitrates?” asked the other, showing but little surprise.
“Yes. I must get a cargo to America as soon as possible.”
“Should think you would want to. Guess I will stick to the old gal here a little longer. When I have got enough money to get out of this swamp in the way I want to I shall go back to old New England.
“I tell you there is no place like the Old Bay State. Yeou won’t think me a sneak for deserting yeou now, Jack?” dropping back into his old-time nasal drawl.
“Oh, no, of course not. In fact, I think you are doing just as I should if I were in your place. I will speak a good word for you to get my position as engineer. You can run the engine as well as I now.”
“Good for you, Jack. Now, how do you think of getting that stuff to the States?”
“About the same way I tried first, only I shall not try to go behind that spur of the Andes, as I did before.