grade
violin and bow. Beyond the table stood a swivel chair, evidently the
usual seat of the coronel. Table and chair were so arranged that the
master of this house sat always with his back to a wall and his face
toward the door. And on a couple of hooks on that wall, ready for
instant service, hung a high-power rifle.

On their way up the river the Americans had passed, at long intervals, a
few small rubber estates, whose headquarters consisted mainly of a crude
shack or two, hardly better than the dingy houses of Remate de Males.
This place was more imposing. They had observed, while crossing the
cleared space, that it was at least half a mile square; that its
warehouse for supplies was big and solid; that a goodly number of
_barracaos_, or rubber workers' huts, surrounded the house of the master
at a respectful distance; and that the owner's home was no one-room
cabin, but big enough to contain six or eight rooms. This well-appointed
reception room and the formal yet sincere courtesy of its owner showed
that Coronel Nunes was no mere native of the frontier. Later they were
to learn that he was a gentleman of Rio who, exiling himself from the
capital after the death of his wife, had carved from this forbidding
jungle a fortune in the rubber trade.

With the correct touch of Latin punctilio McKay spoke the introductions
and stated that they were on their way upriver to explore the
hinterland. With equal politeness the coronel bowed and begged his
illustrious guests to be seated. Then he touched a small bell. A door at
one side opened and a white-suited negro appeared.

"Cafe," the coronel ordered. As speedily as if these visitors had been
long expected, the servant brought in a tray bearing cups of syrupy
coffee. Each of the guests accepted one. Whereafter the decorum of the
occasion was shattered by Tim, who, at the imminent risk of scalding
himself, gulped his refreshment and vociferated his satisfaction.

"O-o-oh boy! That hits right where I live! Gimme another one, feller,
and make it man's size!"

The black fellow struggled with his quick mirth and then laughed
outright--the throaty, infectious laugh of his race. The coronel's eyes
twinkled. And when Tim fished a damp cigarette from his shirt,
nonchalantly scraped a match on his host's table, blew a cloud of smoke,
and sprawled back with one leg dangling over a chair arm, formality went
a-glimmering.

"_A quem madruga Deus ajuda_," laughed the coronel. "Or,