Señor Castro was right glad to see us and after shaking hands with us half-a-dozen times he led the way back through a path in the jungle to his _fezenda_. We dined in his home as I had never dined before nor have since, drank coffee that threw the surpassing beverage of the same name which is brewed in Child’s and the Waldorf-Astoria in the shade and smoked his long tobacco wrapped cigarettes. Then we talked wireless. The apparatus, as Señor Benoit had said, was there and Señor Castro assured us that we should have all the help we needed to set it up. He told us that there was an electric generator and a crude-oil engine to furnish the power to run it with--and yet there were hundreds of thousands of horse power to be had from the Amazon--but which had never been tapped. Fortunately I happened to know all about the history, theory and practise of oil engines and how to sell them if the alleged prospects had the slightest idea of buying such power units. Señor Castro also had a billiard table, a phonograph and other civilized inventions to while away life as pleasantly as possible in the jungle, and taking it all in all Bert and I considered that things were not altogether against us. After we turned in our bobbinet curtained beds that night all went well until we were awakened in the small hours by the sound of a woman’s voice outside. Thinking it was some female in distress Bert awakened the _fezendero_ only to be told with great courtesy that it was not a woman but an _organ bird_. Bert returned saying something about forming a _Society for the Prevention of Jungle Noises at Night_, and we slept again. In the morning Señor Castro took us out to show us his _fezenda_. Three small horses were saddled ready for us to ride--though I can ride a wave at sea much better than I can ride a quadruped on land. We rode around his rubber plantation and Señor Castro showed us how the rubber trees are tapped, explained that the fluid which comes from the trees is not the sap of the wood but of the bark and we saw how the natives stick little tin-cups to the trees with bits of clay to catch the fluid. On returning we rode along the edge of the jungle and Señor Castro cautioned us “never to go into the jungle for you will either get lost, be killed by jaguars, bitten by snakes, or by fever laden insects which are just as bad.” “To the south of us,” he went on calmly, “are the _Caripunas_--aboriginal Indians that kill and eat people if they get a chance.” “Cannibals?” I asked to make sure I had heard aright, and when he said “yes” I could feel an electric oscillation run up and down my spinal column. “How far away from here are they?” questioned Bert with a peculiar light in his eyes I had noticed whenever he spoke of adventure.