ich, in the daytime, would carry half a
mile. McKay nodded to save a similar effort. The outbreak of the howling
monkey which so startled Tim had been only the first note of the night
concert of the jungle. Now that the sun was gone the chorus was in full
swing.

Beasts of the village, the jungle, the river, all hurled their voices
into the uproar. From the gloom around the houses rose the bellowing of
cows and calves, the howls and yelps of dogs, the yowling of cats, the
grunts and squeals of hogs. In the black river, flowing past within a
stone's throw of the hotel door, sounded the loud snorts of dolphins and
the hideous night call of the foul beast of the mud--the alligator. Out
from the matted tangle of trees and brush and great snakelike vines
behind the town rolled the appalling roars of guaribas, raucous bird
calls, dismal hoots, sudden scattered screams. And over all, whelming
all other sound by the sheer might of its penetrating power, throbbed
the rapid-fire hammering of millions of frogs.

"Frogs sound like a machine-gun barrage," the blond man added.

"Or thousands of riveting hammers pounding steel."

"Queer how much worse it is when you're right in it. We've heard it all
the way up two thousand miles of Amazon, but--"

"But you're right beside the orchestra now. Position is everything in
life."

The double-edged jest made Knowlton glance sidelong at his mate. Of the
tall, eagle-faced Scot's past he knew little beyond what he had seen of
him in war, where he had met him and learned to respect him
whole-heartedly. From occasional remarks he had learned that McKay had
been in all sorts of places between Buenos Aires and Nome; and from a
few intangible hints he suspected that his "position in life" had once
been much higher socially than at present. But he asked no questions.

"Some orchestra, all right," he responded, casually. "Plenty of jazz.
It'll quiet down after a while."

For a time they stood leaning against the wall, staring abstractedly out
at the dark. One by one the domestic animals ceased their clamor and
settled themselves for the night. The jungle din, too, seemed to
diminish, though perhaps this was because the ears of the men had become
accustomed to it. At length through the discordant symphony boomed the
voice of Tim.

"By cripes! I know now what folks mean when they talk about a howlin'
wilderness. Always thought 'twas one o' them figgers o' speech, but I'll
tell the world it ai