THE RIVER 0 E MISFORTUNE. 
9T 
dorado, which did not hook itself. I reeled in, 
and, pointing up the river, said that I should 
get out and try higher up. 
My companion vigorously dissuaded me. He 
had no reasons: the only difficulty to be 
encountered was an extremely muddy and sticky 
walk of fifty or a hundred yards. A hooked 
fish would certainly make down stream, and 
there was the canoe handy. There was thus no 
reason in the world against my proposal; but 
my companion grew more and more vehement. 
He obviously did not want me to go, and 
Pedroso backed him up. They had no explana¬ 
tion, beyond the apprehension which lay heavy 
on all of us. Their urgency appealed to the 
same hidden feeling in me also; and I knew, 
from some indefinable cause, that it was a silly 
thing to do. But I would not admit it. What 
possible objection could there be? I laughed 
at them and landed. 
I can see before me now the place I chose. 
The river, full seventy yards wide, not deep, 
was broken by boulders and reefs, visible or 
submerged. Looking across the restless water, 
you saw on the far side dark rocks, which had 
taken the place of the mud bank, and above 
them the silent, moveless forest. And, over all, 
pervading all, dominating every sense, and 
filling the hollow air with sound, the roar of 
the falls had grown louder, and had taken on 
a more menacing and insistent note. It was a 
H 
