DOWNSTREAM. 
157 
washing it and fixing it up into position. It 
was not a very large one, eight feet in length, 
but a startling thing to come on, suddenly. The 
men began skinning it, but at the first cut the 
supposedly-dead beast began to wriggle and to 
lash its tail, though it had already had the 
contents of a revolver emptied into its head. 
At last it was really killed, and its skin was 
peeled off, like a glove from a hand. The sun 
was getting very hot, and the sand almost burnt 
one’s feet. Innumerable yellow butterflies, 
attracted by the puddles of blood that had 
soaked into it, fluttered about, settling on the 
stains, till these were quite hidden by a quiver¬ 
ing drift of orange and gold. The crocodile’s 
skin was treated with disinfectants and put on 
the roof of the launch, the carcase rolled into 
the river for the fish to devour; and then we 
went on board and started down the river, 
leaving the yellow butterflies in possession. 
We sped downstream at a great rate, turning 
unwilling backs on the far reaches we had 
longed to explore. We had seen the great Falls 
of Iguazu and of Guayra, but we ached to 
explore the river still further north, making 
Guayra our starting-point, and wandering far 
into the unknown, where hardly a traveller has 
ever been. Coming back is always rather a 
depressing thing: however successful the 
journey has been, the sense of elation and 
adventure is over. One more memory is added, 
