canoes were not ready. To make matters worse, even though the fellows fished early in the morning, they caught practically nothing. They spent most of the time at the falls writing letters, reading, praying, and passing the time, but ate all their meals with the Brazilian men. Sometimes, before rolling into their hammocks, they would chew on a dry piece of cheese or a piece of hard brown sugar. One night they got out the tea, but it was so mildewed that something ungracious was said about “witch’s brew,” and the rest was thrown out. Of course there was the endless task of deticking themselves. The wood ticks set up a burning itch. Then Tom’s son, Tommy Young, who was accompanying the party, took sick. The chills and fever of malaria repeated themselves endlessly while the youngster curled up in his hammock. The monotonous diet of dried meat and beans with occasional rice and macaroni wasn’t particularly pleasing to a queasy stomach, either. When Harold and Harry arrived for coffee one morning, they found Rodriguez’s men in a state of fear. Xavante Indians during the night had visited the spot where the clearing was being done, they said. They filled their firearms with ammunition and were on constant watch. That night the fellows got back to the falls after dark and were about to get into their hammocks, when Harold decided to go down to the riverbank. He wanted to see if by chance a fish had got on the line they had left tied to the bank.
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