CHAPTER III. 
THE DARK HIGHWAY. 
All morning the shabby little motor launch 
had chugged her way up the river. A tropical 
river, with a dense wall of almost impenetrable 
jungle on either bank, except where some small 
clearing had laboriously been made, or a shoot 
for timber made a brown scar in the green 
tangle. Mile after mile it had pursued its 
way, dodging from side to side to avoid the 
rapids or the sinister eddy of a whirlpool. The 
water was agate coloured, foaming to furious 
amber round the black rocks that pricked its 
surface. Scuds of yellow foam raced past, and 
a few shining logs of wood. No other boats 
were to be seen, only an occasional raft of timber 
with a few brown skinned men sheltering from 
the sun under a flimsy makeshift awning. They 
waved a greeting as they whirled past, but their 
thin voices were swept away in the roar of the 
river and they passed like ghosts. 
More and more the solitude of the forest 
seemed to press on the mind. Civilisation 
became faint and far away. It was difficult 
