as you North
Americans put it, 'God helps those who help themselves.' Let us not be
ceremonious, gentlemen. 'Tonio, bring more coffee. And cigars. And--"

Down behind his table, where only the servant saw the motion, he
twitched a finger as if pulling a cork. 'Tonio, his ebony countenance
split by a grin, ducked his head and vanished into the other room.

"How is the rubber market, sir?" asked Knowlton, seeking to divert
attention from Tim.

"Not so good," the old gentleman replied, with a deprecatory gesture.
"In truth, it is very poor since the war--so poor that soon I shall
abandon this _seringal_ and go out to spend the rest of my life on the
coast. With rubber selling at a mere five hundred dollars a ton in New
York and the artificial plantations of the Far East growing greater
yearly, there is no longer much profit in bleeding the wild trees of our
jungle. I really do not know why I stay here now, unless it is because I
have become so much accustomed to this life."

"Why, I understood that there was much money in rubber!"

"You speak truth--there was. Now there is not. The world moves and times
change. Years ago foreigners came into Brazil, helped themselves to the
seed of our wild trees, and planted it in Ceylon and the Malay region.
That seed now bears such fruit that the world is flooded with rubber.
Ten years ago, senhores, a ton sold for six thousand five hundred
dollars. Now, in this year nineteen-twenty, the price is only
one-thirteenth of what it was in those days. It scarcely pays for the
gathering. I hope you have not come expecting to make fortunes in
rubber."

"No. We are here to find a race of men known as Red Bones."

The coronel's brows lifted. They kept on lifting, and he opened his lips
twice without speaking. After a long stare at Knowlton he looked at
McKay, at Tim, and finally at Jose. A frown grew on his face. And the
Americans, following his look at the Peruvian, were surprised to see
that Jose himself was staring blankly at the speaker.

"Jose Martinez!" snapped the coronel, leveling a finger pistollike at
the _puntero_. "What devil's game are you working now?"

Jose recovered himself and lifted his coffee cup.

"I do not understand you, Nunes," he replied, languidly. "I am but the
humble _puntero_ of the crew engaged by these senores. My only work has
been to earn my pay. And you may ask _el capitan_ whether I have earned
it."

"Ay, he has," corroborated McKay. "Killed two of