THE LONG TRAIL 



slowly over the portages, resting every 

 little while, and when the fever was not 

 too severe we would, when we reached 

 the farther end with the canoes, find him 

 sitting propped against a tree reading a 

 volume of Gibbon, or perhaps the Oxford 

 book of verse. 



There was one particularly black night ; 

 one of our best men had been shot and 

 killed by a useless devil who escaped into 

 the jungle, where he was undoubtedly 

 killed by the Indians. We had been work- 

 ing through a series of rapids that seemed 

 interminable. There would be a long 

 carry, a mile or so clear going, and then 

 more rapids. The fever was high and 

 father was out of his head. Doctor 

 Cajazeira, who was one of the three 

 Brazilians with us, divided with me the 

 watch during the night. The scene is 

 vivid before me. The black rushing river 

 74 



