“Oh, yes; a most excellent place. It is where I always bring scientific parties I am guiding. You may rely on me.”
It was within an hour of dusk — none too much time to allow in which to pitch camp in the tropics, where night follows day suddenly — when a halt was called, as a turn of the river showed a little clearing on the edge of the forest-bound river.
“We stay here for the night,” said Jacinto. “It is a good place.”
“It looks picturesque enough,” observed Mr. Damon. “But it is rather wild.”
“We are a good distance from a settlement,” agreed the guide. “But one can not explore — and find treasure in cities,” and he shrugged his shoulders again.
“Find treasure? What do you mean?” asked Tom quickly. “Do you think that we — — ?”
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“Pardon, Se�or,” replied Jacinto softly. “I meant no offense. I think that all you scientific parties will take treasure if you can find it.”
“We are looking for traces of the old Honduras civilization,” put in Professor Bumper.
“And doubtless you will find it,” was the somewhat too courteous answer of the guide. “Make camp quickly!” he called to the Indians in their tongue. “You must soon get under the nets or you will be eaten alive!” he told Tom. “There are many mosquitoes here.”
The tents were set up, smudge fires built and supper quickly prepared. Dusk fell rapidly, and as Tom and Ned walked a little way down toward the river before turning in under the mosquito canopies, the young financial man said:
“Sort of lonesome and gloomy, isn’t it, Tom?”