Then there were long days of waiting.
Nicky was all set to start up the Rio Patuca. But Cliff agreed with his father and with Joe Anderson, “Andy,” that it was unwise. Although the large village of the Mosquito Indians just a short way up the lagoon was not yet infected, villages beyond it were suffering from yellow fever epidemics and the older heads judged that the boat could not pass the inevitable quarantine.
Cliff and Nicky were greatly worried about Tom; but they could do nothing but wait.
“If we can’t get up to him, he can’t get down to us,” Nicky affirmed.
“No,” agreed Cliff. “This is going to be a slow time. We can’t get any news, either. But the Indian we saw yesterday says that he thinks the fever is not as far up the river as Tom went.”
“I hope so,” Nicky agreed.
They passed the tedious days fighting the wickedly biting sand flies. The evenings sent the flies away, and there were long, beautiful and peaceful hours after sunset, before the mosquitos came out as far as the cruiser, when they could sit on deck and watch the stars; the glowing, sparkling orbs seemed very close, very clear and most beautiful. But there were many evenings when dull skies hovered above, when there was nothing to do but read the few books they had, or sit and talk. Mr. Gray told them countless stories of the old civilizations, and about the Indian customs and legends.
But all through the dreary wait they worried about Tom.
Then, one night, Henry arrived!
His body was thin and starved looking, and his clothes were rags. He came in a canoe and there was great excitement when he was recognized. Questions volleyed at him from all sides, but he would not talk—in fact, he could hardly stand—until he had been given some stewed turtle, a sweet yam and some fruit and tea.