THE LURE OF KARTABO 9 
the second had been seasoned by sun and rain, 
papered by lichens, and gnawed and bored by 
tiny wood-folk into a neutral inconspicuousness 
as complete as an Indian’s deserted benab. The 
wide verandah was open on all sides, and from 
the bamboos of the front compound one looked 
straight through the central hallway to bamboos 
at the back. It seemed like a happy accident of 
the natural surroundings, a jungle-bound cave, 
or the low rambling chambers of a mighty hol- 
low tree. 
No thought of who had been here last came 
to us that first evening. We unlimbered the 
creaky-legged cots, stiff and complaining after 
their three years’ rest, and the air was filled with 
the clean odor of micaceous showers of naphtha- 
line from long-packed pillows and sheets. From 
the rear came the clatter of plates, the scent of 
ripe papaws and bananas, mingled with the smell 
of the first fire in a new stove. Then I went 
out and sat on my own twelve-foot bank, looking 
down on the sandy beach and out and over to 
the most beautiful view in the Guianas. Down 
from the right swept slowly the Mazaruni, and 
from the left the Cuyuni, mingling with one wide 
expanse like a great rounded lake, bounded by 
