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Stout, Rex, 1886-1975

"Under the Andes"

"It's nothing
but the water-pigs. I've heard 'em a thousand times in the last
few days. And the Lord knows we have enough of them."
But Harry protested that the splash was much too loud to have
been caused by any water-pig and waded into the stream to
investigate. I rose to my feet and followed him leisurely, for no
reason in particular, but was suddenly startled by an excited cry
from his lips:
"Paul--the spear! Quick! It's a whale!"
I ran as swiftly as I could to the shore and returned with our
spears, but when I reached Harry he greeted me with an oath of
disappointment and the information that the "whale" had
disappeared. He was greatly excited.
"I tell you he was twenty feet long! A big black devil, with a
head like a cow."
"You're sure it wasn't like a pig?" I asked skeptically.
Harry looked at me.
"I have drunk nothing but water for a month," he said dryly. "It
was a fish, and some fish."
"Well, there's probably more like him," I observed. "But they
can wait. Come on and get some sleep, and then--we'll see."
Some hours afterward, having filled ourselves with sleep and food
(I had decided, after mature deliberation, not to change my
hotel), we started out, armed with our spears.


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