Barrett wiped his forearm across his forehead to sweep clean the beaded sweat and found time for a slight grin. He’d once run safari for a number of inexperienced explorers from another jungle, New York. There was one good-looking young fellow who obviously saw himself as another Stanley, Sir Henry. Barrett only saw him as Stanley, Laurel. Of course, this young trailblazer was not content to relax and let Barrett and his men do the dirty work. Oh, no. He had to participate. He had his own machete, too, clean and shiny new. Actually, he’d done rather well with the big knife. Until in a tired, sweaty moment he’d gone to wipe the perspiration from his brow and instead made a neat five-centimeter-long gash just over his eyebrows. Moral: never wipe sweat, scratch yourself, or swat bugs with the hand holding a machete. Barrett turned, shouted, “Njoo, njoo!” to his men. Moving through the gap he shifted his machete to the other hand.
