"Mr. Harris," he asked, "you have not met a Portuguese, named Negoro,
in the night?"

"Negoro?" replied Harris, in the tone of a man who does not understand
what is said. "Who is this Negoro?"

"He was the cook on board," replied Dick Sand, "and he has disappeared."

"Drowned, perhaps," said Harris.

"No, no," replied Dick Sand. "Yesterday evening he was still with us,
but during the night he has left us, and he has probably ascended the
steep bank of this river. So I asked you, who have come from that side,
if you had not met him."

"I have met nobody," replied the American; "and if your cook has
ventured alone into the forest, he runs a great risk of going astray.
Perhaps we shall overtake him on the way."

"Yes; perhaps!" replied Dick Sand.

When the two returned to the grotto, breakfast was ready. It was
composed, like the supper of the evening before, of alimentary
conserves, of corned beef and of biscuit. Harris did honor to it, like
a man whom nature had endowed with a great appetite.

"Let us go," said he; "I see that we shall not die of hunger on the
way! I shall not say as much for that poor devil of a Portuguese, of
whom our young friend has spoken."