“Why? Because I’ve heard things about the jungle,” retorted George. “And Pepe says wait till we get down off the mountain. He doesn’t _know_ anything, either. But it’s his instinct--Pepe’s half Indian. So I say, too, wait till we get down in the jungle!” “Confound you! Where are we now?” queried Ken. “The real jungle is the lowland. There we’ll find the tigers and the crocodiles and the wild cattle and wild pigs.” “Bring on your old pigs and things,” replied Hal. But Ken looked into the glowing embers of the camp-fire and was silent. When he got out his note-book and began his drawing, he forgot the worry and dread in the interest of his task. He was astonished at his memory, to see how he could remember every turn in the river and yet not lose his sense of direction. He could tell almost perfectly the distance traveled, because he knew so well just how much a boat would cover in swift or slow waters in a given time. He thought he could give a fairly correct estimate of the drop of the river. And, as for descriptions of the jungle life along the shores, that was a delight, all except trying to understand and remember and spell the names given to him by Pepe. Ken imagined Pepe spoke a mixture of Toltec, Aztec, Indian, Spanish, and English. *IX* *IN THE WHITE WATER* Upon awakening next morning Ken found the sun an hour high. He was stiff and sore and thirsty. Pepe and the boys slept so soundly it seemed selfish to wake them. All around camp there was a melodious concourse of birds. But the parrots did not make a visit that morning. While Ken was washing in the river a troop of deer came down to the bar on the opposite side. Ken ran for his rifle, and by mistake took up George’s .32. He had a splendid shot at less than one hundred yards. But the bullet dropped fifteen feet in front of the leading buck. The deer ran into the deep, bushy willows. “That gun’s leaded,” muttered Ken. “It didn’t shoot where I aimed.” Pepe jumped up; George rolled out of his blanket with one eye still glued shut; and Hal stretched and yawned and groaned. “Do I have to get up?” he asked. “Shore, lad,” said Ken, mimicking Jim Williams, “or I’ll hev to be reconsiderin’ that idee of mine about you bein’ pards with me.” Such mention of Hal’s ranger friend brought the boy out of his lazy bed with amusing alacrity. “Rustle breakfast, now, you fellows,” said Ken, and, taking his rifle, he started off to climb the high river bluff.