ry the reader were we to continue our description of the
daily proceedings of our adventurers in journalistic form. To get on
with our tale requires that we should advance by bounds, and even
flights--not exactly of fancy, but over stretches of space and time,
though now and then we may find it desirable to creep or even to stand
still.

We request the reader to creep with us at present, and quietly listen
while Pedro and Tiger talk.

Pedro lies extended on his back on the roof of the gondola-like cabin,
his hands under his head, his knees elevated, and a cigarette in his
mouth. Lawrence and Quashy are leaning in more or less lazy attitudes
on the gunwale of the canoe, indulging now and then in a few remarks,
which do not merit attention. Manuela, also in a reclining attitude,
rests under the shade of the erection on which Pedro lies, listening to
their discourse. Tiger is the only one on duty, but his labour is
light: it consists merely of holding the steering oar, and guiding the
light craft along the smooth current of the river. Pedro lies with his
head to the stern, so that his talk with the Indian is conducted, so to
speak, upside-down. But that does not seem to incommode them, for the
ideas probably turn right end foremost in passing to and fro.

Of course their language is in the Indian tongue. We translate.

"Tiger," said Pedro, sending a long whiff of smoke straight up towards
the bright blue sky, where the sun was beginning to descend towards his
western couch, "we shan't make much, I fear, of the men of this part of
the country."

"I did not expect that you would," replied the Indian, giving a gentle
turn to his oar in order to clear a mudbank, on which a number of
alligators were basking comfortably.

"Why so, Tiger? Surely peace and good government are as desirable to
them as to others."

"No doubt, but many of them do not love peace. They are young. Their
blood is hot, and they have nothing to do. When that is so, war is
pleasant to them. It is natural. Man must work, or play, or fight. He
cannot lie still. Those who are killed cannot return to tell their
comrades what fools they have been, so those that remain are greater
fools than ever."

"I agree with you, Tiger; but you see it is not the young men who have
the making of war, though they generally get all the doing of it, and
the poor women and children take the consequences; it is the governors,
whom one would expect to show s