The next day, after an early observation of my patient, who seemed to have recovered from the shock and thus gave at least this hope of success, I spent my time going around to visit the homes of the seringueiros.  They were all as polite as their chief, and after exchanging the salute of “Boa dia,” they would invite me to climb up the ladder and enter the hut.  Here they would invariably offer me a cup of strong coffee.  There were always two or three hammocks, of which I was given the one I liked best.  The huts generally consist of two rooms with a few biscuit-boxes as chairs, and Winchester rifles and some fancy-painted paddles to complete the furniture.

The following day I arose with the sun and, after some coffee, asked a huge small-pox-scarred fellow to accompany me on my first excursion into the real jungle.  Up to this time I had only seen it from my back porch in Remate de Males and from the deck of the launch Carolina, but now I was in the heart of the forest and would indulge in jungle trips to my heart’s content.  We entered through a narrow pathway called an estrada, whose gateway was guarded by a splendid palm-tree, like a Cerberus at the gates of dark Hades.  The estrada led us past one hundred to one hundred and fifty rubber trees, as it wound its way over brooks and fallen trees.  Each of the producing trees had its rough bark gashed with cuts to a height of ten to twelve feet all around its circumference.  These marks were about an inch and a half in length.  Alongside of the tree was always to be found a stick, on the end of which were a dozen or so of small tin-cups used in collecting the rubber-milk.  Every worker has two estradas to manage, and by tapping along each one alternately he obtains the maximum of the product.  This particular estrada was now deserted as the seringueiro happened to be at work on the other one under his jurisdiction.

It was in a sense agreeable to work there as the sun could not penetrate the dense foliage and the air was therefore cool.  After we had walked for about an hour, my big guide complained of being tired and of feeling unwell.  I told him he could go back to the camp and leave me to find my way alone.  Accordingly he left me and I now had the task of carrying without assistance my large 8 x 10 view-camera, a shotgun, a revolver, and a machete.

Gradually my ear caught a terrible sound which to the uninitiated would have seemed like the roaring of a dozen lions in combat, but the dreadful notes that vibrated through the forest were only those of the howling monkey.  I always had a great desire to see one of this species in the act of performing this uncanny forest-concert, therefore I left the rubber pathway after placing my camera on the ground, up against a rubber tree, and commenced following the noise, cutting my way through the underbrush.  I walked and walked, but the sound seemed to remain the same distance away, and I stopped to reconnoitre.