"Nope," grimly. "That one won't never come back. All the same, if you gents want to chew the fat with this feller I'm goin' slummin' with me friend Joey Mouthgargle Nabisco Whoozis. Then I won't be round here to make no sour-caustic remarks and gum up yer party." "Might be a good idea," McKay conceded. "There he is now, the li'l' darlin'! Hullo, Joey, old sock! Stick around a minute while I scoop a few more beans. Be with ye toot sweet--vite--presto--P.D.Q." Wherewith he demolished the rest of his meal with military dispatch, proceeded doorward, smote the grinning army of Remate de Males a buffet on the shoulder, and vanished into the night. A moment later his stentorian voice rolled back through the nocturnal racket in an impromptu paraphrase of an old and highly improper army song: "We're in the jungle now, We ain't behind the plow; We'll never git rich, We'll die with the itch. We're in the jungle now!" CHAPTER IV. THE GERMAN The door of the German's room opened. The German came out and marched to the table. Two paces away he halted and faced the Americans, ready to speak if spoken to, equally ready to sit and ignore them if not greeted. McKay and Knowlton rose. "Herr von Schwandorf?" inquired Knowlton. "Schwandorf. Neither Herr nor von. Plain Schwandorf." The reply came in excellent English, though with a slight throaty accent. "Knowlton is my name. Mr. McKay. The third member of our party, Mr. Ryan, has just left." Schwandorf bowed stiffly from the waist. "It is a pleasure to meet you. White men are all too few here." Seating himself at a place beyond that just vacated by Tim, he continued, "You stay here for a time?" "Not long." They reseated themselves. "We go up the river as soon as we can arrange transportation." The black brows lifted slightly. "It is a dangerous river. You would do well to travel elsewhere unless you have some pressing reason to explore this stream." With an accustomed sweep of the hand he shooed the flies from the bean dish and helped himself to a big portion. Over the legumes he poured farinha in the Brazilian fashion. "We have. We are seeking a tribe of people who paint their bones red." Schwandorf's hand, conveying the first mouthful of beans upward, stopped in air. His black eyes fixed the Americans with an astounded stare. He lowered the beans, stabbed absently at a chunk of beef, sawed it apart, popped a piece of it into his mouth, and sat for a time chewing. When the meat was down he spoke bluntly: "Are there not ways enough to kill yourselves at home instead of traveling to this place to do it?" McKay smiled. The directness of the man amused him. "As bad as that?" asked Knowlton. "As bad as that. Blow your head off if you like. Cut your throat. Take poison. Jump into the river among the alligators. Step on a snake. But keep away from the Red Bones." "Why?" shot McKay. "Cannibals--and worse." "Worse?"