lled steadily and surely under the guidance of the faithful Bunco,
through tangled brake, and wild morass, and dense forest, and many a
mile of sandy plain, until at length they reached the small town and
port of _Tacames_, into which they entered one sultry afternoon,
footsore and weary, with their clothes torn almost to tatters, and
without a single coin--of any realm whatever--in their pockets.

"Well, here we are at last," said Will Osten, with a sigh.

"True for ye," responded Larry.

"That's so," said Muggins.

"It's all well as ends well, which wos Billy Cowper's opinion," observed
Old Peter.

Bunco made no remark, but he gave a quiet grunt, which might have meant
anything--or nothing--as they entered the town.

CHAPTER NINE.

DESCRIBES A SURGICAL OPERATION, AND RECORDS THE DELIBERATIONS OF A
COUNCIL.

The town of Tacames, in the republic of Ecuador, is not large, neither
is it important to the world, but it appeared both large and important
in the eyes of our hero and his comrades. In their circumstances any
town would have been regarded as a city of refuge, and their joy on
arriving was not much, if at all, marred by the smallness and the poor
appearance of the town, which, at that time, consisted of about twenty
houses. They were built on the top of posts about twelve or fourteen
feet from the ground--like the hut of the Spaniard already described--
because, being closely walled in by a dense jungle, tigers and huge
monkeys were bold enough to pay the inhabitants nocturnal and unwelcome
visits very frequently.

"A curious-looking place," observed Will Osten, as they drew near.

"So would the natives obsarve of London or Liverpool," said Old Peter.

"With less cause, however," replied Will.

"That depends on taste," retorted Old Peter.

"Be no manes," put in Larry; "it neither depinds on taste, nor smell,
but feelin'--see now, here's how it is. We being in Tickamis, _feels_
it coorious; well av the natives here wos in London _they_ would feel it
coorious. It's all a matter o' feelin' d'ye see--wan o' the five
senses."

"Wot a muddlehead you are, Larry," growled Muggins; "ye don't even know
that there's six senses."

"Only five," said the Irishman firmly--"seein', hearin', tastin',
smellin', and feelin'; wot's the sixth sense?"

"One that you are chock full of--it's non-sense," replied Muggins.

"Think o' that, now!" exclaimed Larry, with a broad grin; "sure I wint
an' forgot it, an