It must have been late, for the moon was low. His ankle pained and throbbed, and to that he attributed his nightmare. He was falling asleep again when the clink of tin pans made him sit up with a start. Some animal was prowling about camp. He peered into the moonlit shadows, but could make out no unfamiliar object. Still he was not satisfied; so he awoke Pepe. Certainly it was not Ken’s intention to let Pepe get out ahead; nevertheless he was lame and slow, and before he started Pepe rolled out of the tent. “Santa Maria!” shrieked Pepe. Ken fumbled under his pillow for a gun. Hal raised up so quickly that he bumped Ken’s head, making him see a million stars. George rolled over, nearly knocking down the tent. From outside came a sliddery, rustling noise, then another yell that was deadened by a sounding splash. Ken leaped out with his gun, George at his elbow. Pepe stood just back of the tent, his arms upraised, and he appeared stunned. The water near the bank was boiling and bubbling; waves were dashing on the shore and ripples spreading in a circle. George shouted in Spanish. “Crocodile!” cried Ken. “Si, si, Señor,” replied Pepe. Then he said that when he stepped out of the tent the crocodile was right in camp, not ten feet from where the boys lay. Pepe also said that these brutes were man-eaters, and that he had better watch for the rest of the night. Ken thought him, like all the natives, inclined to exaggerate; however, he made no objection to Pepe’s holding watch over the crocodile. “What’d I tell you?” growled George. “Why didn’t you let me shoot him? Let’s go back to bed.” In the morning when Ken got up he viewed his body with great curiosity. The ticks and the cigarette burns had left him a beautifully tattoed specimen of aborigine. His body, especially his arms, bore hundreds of little reddish scars--bites and burns together. There was not, however, any itching or irritation, for which he made sure he had to thank Pepe’s skill and the _canya_. George did not get up when Ken called him. Thinking his sleep might have been broken, Ken let him alone a while longer, but when breakfast was smoking he gave him a prod. George rolled over, looking haggard and glum. “I’m sick,” he said. Ken’s cheerfulness left him, for he knew what sickness or injury did to a camping trip. George complained of aching bones, headache and cramps, and showed a tongue with a yellow coating. Ken said he had eaten too much fresh meat, but Pepe, after looking George over, called it a name that sounded like _calentura_. “What’s that?” Ken inquired. “Tropic fever,” replied George. “I’ve had it before.” For a while he was a very sick boy. Ken had a little medicine-case, and from it he administered what he thought was best, and George grew easier presently. Then Ken sat down to deliberate on the situation.