The two men, hanging on for their lives, could not speak to one another because the roar of the water drowned the sound of their voices. Showers of spray dashed over them as they plunged down the terraces of cascades, but the raft always bobbed up again after the leaps and its laminated construction made it staunch enough to withstand the frightful strain to which it was subjected. After a half hour’s race down the agitated stream the water became calmer and the current slackened. The raft now drifted lazily on the broad expanse and the men regained their feet, glad of the relief afforded them from their strained position. The poles they had used were gone. “We had better land and cut new ones,” Miguel said, calling attention to their loss. “Without them we’ll simply drift along and not get anywhere.” David agreed that this was the proper thing to do. There was now but one way to propel their craft; that was to lie flat and paddle with their hands. They soon found, however, that their efforts had little effect on the large, cumbersome raft. It responded so feebly that the result was barely noticeable. Then they both lay on the same side; this weighted down the edge they were on while it raised the other side out of the water. Their combined efforts, coupled with the position of the raft in the water, caused it to swing slightly toward the bank. It was mid-afternoon when they finally touched land; the men were nearly exhausted. They pulled one end up on the shelving bank and tied it securely. Then they sat down to eat and to rest. “We are this far, anyway,” David commented. “It isn’t very far, I know, but it’s a start and we’re away from the island. The raft behaved fine in the rapids. It will stand anything.” “Yes,” Miguel agreed, “but we don’t know if we are going in the right direction. This river may never take us near camp.” “All the rivers must find their way into the Amazon,” David insisted, “so we can’t go wrong.” “Then we can just drift along. Everything will be all right in the end.” Miguel seemed filled with confidence. His words carried a double meaning to David. He had done nothing but drift--from one thing to another--into one difficulty after the other, since reaching Brazil. “Are you sure, Miguel,” he asked, “that everything will be all right in the end?” “Yes, it always is. But it often takes a long time.” At this point the subject of the conversation was changed abruptly, for appearing out of the forest on the other side of the river were a number of Indians--the very ones, no doubt, from whom they had so narrowly escaped. The brown men were looking at them and waving their arms and the sound of their voices could be heard plainly across the wide expanse of the stream. “They’re like wolves on the trail,” Miguel said. “They never give up. But they can’t get to us now. They have no canoes and the river is too broad to swim.”