Sinopsis

My eyes rested long upon the graceful white-painted hull of the R.M.S.
Manco as she disappeared behind a bend of the Amazon River, more than
2200 miles from the Atlantic Ocean. After 47 days of continuous travel
aboard of her, I was at last standing on the Brazilian frontier, watching the
steamer's plume of smoke still hanging lazily over the immense, brooding
forests. More than a plume of smoke it was to me then; it was the final link
that bound me to the outside world of civilisation. At last it disappeared. I
turned and waded through the mud up to a small wooden hut built on
poles.
It was the end of January, 1910, that saw me approaching this house, built
on Brazilian terra f...