The shock of our fellow-voyageur’s death was still on me as, amid the amazing splendor of that tropical scene, we made preparations to dispose of the body. Much later in the night, when all were sleeping, I felt a tug at my mosquito netting, and in the dim starlight I made out Hardy’s pioneer head, with its square-jawed face, peering at me.
He motioned me to follow him quietly. Wonderingly, I made my way after this soldier of fortune, who, by the sheerest good luck, we had picked up in the Brazilian capital. Presently he stopped.
“Do you wish to continue your journey?” he asked.
Despite Ericson’s death, I could not think otherwise; already we had come four thousand miles, of which the last fifteen hundred had brought us into the very interior of the South American continent. Too much capital and energy had been expended for us lightly to abandon our project. And I said so.
“You misunderstand,” he returned quickly. “It is not Ericson’s finish that made me ask, but the manner of it!”
The thin edge of doubt as to Hardy’s fortitude perhaps began to insert itself into my mind. He observed it.
“Damn it, man!” he exclaimed. “I am game. But you are to know that from now on we’ll have to buck not only the elements, but that toad-faced de Silva as well.”
At mention of the Spaniard who had tricked and nearly outmaneuvered us at Rio de Janiero with the officials, something like a chill came over me.
“What brings him into this?” I demanded.
Hardy’s answer was dramatic enough.