CHAPTER XI. 
A GOOD DAY AT DORADO. 
It was five o’clock in the morning. The mist 
was twisting and wreathing and smoking on 
the polished surface of the water, and only the 
tops of the trees of the Paraguay forest were 
visible, like shrubs looking over a wall. Such 
a dawn, misty and still, gave certainty of heat, 
and we ought to start without delay. Neither 
dressing nor breakfast takes long for fortunate 
dwellers in a hot country; at sunrise everyone 
is naturally awake, and the kettle was soon 
boiled, coffee and mat6 made, and shirt and 
trousers pulled on. The line, uncoiled the night 
before to dry, had of course taken occasion to 
snarl itself into a hundred tangles, but it was 
reeled on the drum at last, and rod and gaff 
handed into the canoe. We paddled up through 
the curling mists, and reached our fishing 
ground long before the red rim of the sun 
showed over the monte. 
It was my turn to start. We had fished the 
stream the night before, but fared unluckily. 
I had lost three fish running, all apparently 
