242 WANDERINGS IN SOUTH AMERICA 



minutes in looking for my trousers and in slip- 

 ping into them. 



We found a cayman, ten feet and a half long, 

 fast to the end of the rope. Nothing now re- 

 mained to do, but to get him out of the water 

 without injuring his scales, "hoc opus, hie labor." 

 We mustered strong: there were three Indians 

 from the creek, there was my own Indian Yan, 

 Daddy Quashi, the negro from Mrs. Peterson's, 

 James, Mr. R. Edmonstone's man, whom I was 

 instructing to preserve birds, and lastly, myself. 



I informed the Indians that it was my intention 

 to draw him quietly out of the water, and then 

 secure him. They looked and stared at each other, 

 and said I might do it myself; but they would 

 have no hand in it ; the cayman would worry some 

 of us. On saying this, "consedere duces," they 

 squatted on their hams with the most perfect in- 

 difference. 



The Indians of these wilds have never been 

 subject to the least restraint; and I knew enough 

 of them to be aware, that if I tried to force them 

 against their will, they would take off, and leave 

 me and my presents unheeded and never return. 



Daddy Quashi was for applying to our guns, as 

 usual, considering them our best and safest 

 friends. I immediately offered to knock him down 

 for his cowardice, and he shrunk back, begging 

 that I would be cautious, and not get myself 

 worried; and apologizing for his own want of 

 resolution. My Indian was now in conversation 

 with the others, and they asked if I would allow 

 them to shoot a dozen arrows into him, and thus 

 disable him. This would have ruined all. I had 



