As in two weeks the crew had consumed provisions planned by the Captain to last a month, the Captain purchased a hundred pounds of beef from a dug-out full of Indians which passed us one day on the river. This Maestro salted plentifully and then hung up in the sun to cure. Long strips of it were suspended from the rigging, from the boom, and over the railing, and whole entomological collections buzzed noisily about them. For a few days we felt as though we were living in a butcher’s shop; and a butcher’s shop in a tropical climate is a thing to be avoided. At first we were inclined to resent this impromptu meat market. It was not only disagreeable but it was in the way. Then came the thought—suppose it were fish; and we were so grateful to be spared that, that we cheerfully submitted to a sloop draped with strips of meat, as a house is festooned with smilax at Christmas. As long as the larder was low the Captain had known no peace of mind for fear his crew would desert us and the sloop. So the purchase of such a delicacy as meat was a successful piece of strategy. With all their faults, there is among the Venezuelans, as among the Mexicans, a certain chivalry toward women; and so I never felt the least alarm at being left alone on the sloop with the crew, while the Captain and my husband went off up the river. The great dusky Creole mate would put my stool in a shady spot, and, figuratively, lay himself at my feet to serve me, and Maestro—even pugnacious Maestro—would weave wonderful baskets for me of the roots of the mangrove; baskets in nests of twelve, each fitting snugly within the other and all gayly dyed with the Venezuelan colors, the pigments being extracted from the leaves or stems of unknown wild plants. [Illustration: FIG. 43. SUNSET IN THE MANGROVE WILDERNESS.]