158 
THE GOLDEN RIVER. 
it is true, to one’s ‘scented hoard’; but the 
attained has moved out of that shimmering 
mirage of the places that are yet waiting to be 
seen. Fortunately, the Pied Piper of the 
wilderness holds enough magic in his music to 
last a lifetime; and the world is wide. 
The river had fallen tremendously since our 
upstream journey, and a broad strip of glisten¬ 
ing black rocks now showed, where the monte 
had previously come down right to the water’s 
edge. One by one we passed the well-known 
landmarks, whilst we, with the river, hurried 
further and further from the strange, beautiful 
scenery upstream, to the wider stretches of 
water lower down : till at last the little town of 
Posadas showed low on the horizon, pricked 
with the pencil points of masts and shipping in 
the harbour. 
The crocodile skin was brought to our hotel 
with the rest of our luggage, but stayed down¬ 
stairs with the heavier baggage. And then it 
was that the crocodile avenged his death. The 
iweather was hot, and little by little an 
unpleasant smell began to be noticed. Intending 
visitors arriving at the hotel sniffed critically 
in the hall: there was dark talk of defective 
drains. We, on the upper storey, were ignorant 
of the turn of events : till finally the worried 
proprietor tracked the smell to its source, and 
came to say we must at once remove the skin. 
The thought of losing his beloved crocodile was 
