After seven hours of the
hardest kind of work we were ready for it.
That was our program for the time that followed--time that
stretched into many weary hours, for, once started, we worked
feverishly, so impatient had we become by dint of that faint
glimmer of hope. We were going to try to build a raft, on which
we were going to try to embark on the stream, by which we were
going to try to find our way out of the mountain. The prospect
made us positively hilarious, so slender is the thread by which
hope jerks us about.
The first part of our task was the most strenuous. We waited and
waded round many hours before another fish appeared, and then he
got away from us. Another attempt was crowned with success after
a hard fight. The second one was even larger than the first.
The next two were too small to be of use in the raft, but we
saved them for another purpose. Then, after another long search,
lasting many hours, we ran into half a dozen of them at once.
By that time we were fairly expert with our spears, besides
having discovered their vulnerable spot--the throat, just forward
from the gills. To this day I don't know whether or not they were
man-eaters.
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