in' to
walk round the house and come right back. And the lads that come out
with us done the same--turned round and quit us without a word. I bet if
we lived amongst 'em long we'd git to be dummies, too."

For a moment there was silence. For no apparent reason all glanced at
one of the naked men, on whose skin faintly showed reddish streaks.

"You would," he said.

"Huh! Gee! Rand's talkin' again! First time since we licked them Red
Boneheads. Two whole words. Go easy, feller, easy!"

"I will be easy. But it's time I talked. I am not dumb. I am not crazy."

The green-eyed man spoke slowly, as if forming each word in his mind
before pronouncing it. The rest squatted with eyes riveted on his face.

"I have not talked before because I had to find myself. I had to hear
English spoken and become used to it. I had to put things together in my
mind. Even now some things are not clear. But I can talk and make sense
of my talk. I will tell what I can remember. First tell me one thing.
McKay, am I a murderer?"

"A murderer? You? If you are we never heard of it."

"A man named Schmidt. Gustav Schmidt. German merchant at Manaos."

"Gustav Schmidt? Piggy little runt, bald and fat, with a scar across his
chin?"

"Yes."

"He's dead, but you didn't kill him. He was shot a little while ago by a
young Brazilian for getting too intimate with the young fellow's wife.
We heard about it while we were in Manaos, and saw his picture. What
about him?"

"I thought I killed him. I struck him with a bottle. I was told he was
dead. How long have I been here?"

"You left the States in 1915. It is now 1920."

"Five years? My God! What has happened in that time? Is my mother well?"

The others looked pityingly at him. Slowly Knowlton spoke.

"Your mother died two years ago from heart trouble. Your uncle, Philip
Dawson, also is dead."

Rand's jaw set. The others shifted their gaze and busied themselves with
making new cigarettes, spending much time over the simple task.

"Poor mother!" Rand said, huskily. "Uncle Phil--he was a good old scout.
And I was here--buried alive--only half alive! My head--Tell me, what
happened on the night before you dressed my lame foot? I remember
clearly everything from the time I woke in the canoe before daylight
that morning. Before that there is a blur."

Knowlton sketched the events of that night, and told also of the glimpse
which he and Pedro had caught of the "wild man" while waiting outside