“Cut the rope!” Ken thundered. “Use a knife, the ax--anything--only cut it--and cut it quick!” Pepe could find nothing. Knife in hand, Ken leaped over his head, sprawled headlong over the trunk, and slashed the taut lasso just as the water began to roar into the boat. The bow bobbed up as a cork that had been under. But the boat had shipped six inches of water. [Illustration: KNIFE IN HAND, KEN LEAPED OVER HIS HEAD AND SLASHED THE TAUT LASSO] “Row ashore, Pepe. Steady, there. Trim the boat, George.” They beached at a hard clay-bank and rested a little before unloading to turn out the water. “Grande!” observed Pepe. “Yes; he was big,” assented George. “I wonder what’s going to happen to us next,” added Hal. Ken Ward looked at these companions of his and he laughed outright. “Well, if you all don’t take the cake for nerve!” *XX* *TREED BY WILD PIGS* Pepe’s long years of _mozo_ work, rowing for tarpon fishermen, now stood the boys in good stead. All the hot hours of the day he bent steadily to the oars. Occasionally they came to rifts, but these were not difficult to pass, being mere swift, shallow channels over sandy bottom. The rocks and the rapids were things of the past. George lay in a kind of stupor, and Hal lolled in his seat. Ken, however, kept alert, and as the afternoon wore on began to be annoyed at the scarcity of camp-sites. The muddy margins of the river, the steep banks, and the tick-infested forests offered few places where it was possible to rest, to say nothing of sleep. Every turn in the widening river gave Ken hope, which resulted in disappointment. He found consolation, however, in the fact that every turn and every hour put him so much farther on the way. About five o’clock Ken had unexpected good luck in shape of a small sand-bar cut off from the mainland, and therefore free of cattle-tracks. It was clean and dry, with a pile of driftwood at one end. “Tumble out, boys,” called Ken, as Pepe beached the boat. “We’ll pitch camp here.” Neither Hal nor George showed any alacrity. Ken watched his brother; he feared to see some of the symptoms of George’s sickness. Both lads, however, seemed cheerful, though too tired to be of much use in the pitching of camp. Ken could not recover his former good spirits. There was a sense of foreboding in his mind that all was not well, that he must hurry, hurry. And although George appeared to be holding his own, Hal healthy enough, and Pepe’s brooding quiet at least no worse, Ken could not rid himself of gloom. If he had answered the question that knocked at his mind he would have admitted a certainty of disaster. So he kept active, and when there were no more tasks for that day he worked on his note-book, and then watched the flight of wild fowl.