Smyth had previously noticed both men stuffing something into their mouths periodically, but, being so used to seeing the sailors chew tobacco, he had never given it a second thought. He chewed lustily at the little ball for five minutes, but succeeded in extracting neither taste nor nourishment from it.
“I think I should prefer salt pork,” he said. “What little taste your coca has is beastly; and I am as hungry as I was before.”
“Patience; you have not chewed it long enough.”
He tried again, and presently the Indian said with a smile:
“Well, Señor?”
“I don’t know how it is, but I’m losing my hunger. You try it, Frank.—Give my friend one.”
The Jevero shook his head doubtfully.
“It must be a little one, then. It is not good for him. You smoke cigars, and you give some to us; but you do not give him one. With coca it is the same.”
Smyth continued to chew, and was no longer conscious either of hunger or fatigue—for half an hour or more, when both these mortal ills began to return; and of course with double acuteness. He remarked on this to the Indians.