Andy uttered these words as he stood at the rail of a small but staunch
steam yacht, of rather ancient vintage, that he and Frank had leased
when arriving at Maracaibo, the city on the bay of the same name, from
whence so much of Venezuela's coffee is shipped to the States.

It had belonged to some Englishman who, becoming stranded at this South
American port while on a globe circling trip, was forced to let it go;
and the agents gladly secured a crew for the adventurous young
Americans, who were bound up the Magdalena River for some unknown
purpose.

"Yes," observed Frank, who leaned on the same rail close beside him,
"there's the town of Barranquila, all right. We've navigated the five
hundred miles in this little steam craft" with only a few break-downs of
the machinery, and just two days' delay. And the second step on our
journey comes to a close."

"The third ought to take us to that valley town up the river; ain't I
right?" asked the anxious Andy.

"Sure. As near as I can make it, Magangue must be not over two hundred
miles upstream. With good luck we can cover that in a couple of days,"
returned Frank.

"But why do you say good luck?" demanded his cousin, suspiciously.

"Oh! well, we are now in the land of tomorrow, you remember," laughed
Frank.