Free The Masked Monkey by Franklin W. Dixon

deep breath and submerged. Kicking hard, and using his arms in a powerful breaststroke, he arched down under the launch. The keel scraped his back as he passed. His lungs were bursting for want of air when he came up on the opposite side of the craft. Reaching out, he grasped a railing just above the water line.
    A split second later Joe bobbed up beside him. They clung to the railing side by side, gasping for breath. The launch carried them swiftly down the river.
    â€œNow what?” Joe asked. “Shall we call the skipper?”
    â€œBetter not,” Frank said. “There’s no telling who’s on board. San Marten’s confederates wouldbe only too happy to arrange a reception committee for us.”
    They clung to the launch until it passed the confluence of the Rio Negro and the Amazon, a few miles below Manaus. Feeling safe, they dropped off and swam to the shore.
    â€œI’ve had it,” Frank said, flopping down in a patch of tall jungle grass.
    â€œRest a while,” Joe said. “I’ll get us a snack.”
    He walked off into the jungle and returned ten minutes later with a big bunch of bananas. Voraciously they downed the fruit, tossing the skins over their shoulders as they worked through the bunch.
    â€œAt least we won’t starve here,” Frank observed.
    â€œWe’re okay,” Joe said, “as long as we don’t get eaten. I’d hate to wake up and find a hungry jaguar staring me in the eye.”
    â€œThere’s probably a lot of them in this area,” Frank said. “Hear those monkeys chattering in the trees? Jaguars feast on monkeys.”
    Joe pondered Frank’s remark. “That reminds me. We’ve learned the name of the beast that’s been annoying us—Diabo.”
    â€œWhich means devil in Portuguese,” Frank said. “You couldn’t think of a better name for that horrible creature.”
    Joe yawned. “We’ve left him far behind. Now it’s me for dreamland.”
    They both were soon sound asleep on the banks of the Amazon. The sun had risen by the time they woke. After breakfasting on bananas and berries, they walked along the shore, waving and shouting at boats passing by in the middle of the river.
    â€œNo go,” Joe said after a while. “They’re too far out to notice us.”
    â€œWe’ll have to build a raft,” Frank stated. “There are plenty of fallen trees in the jungle. They’ll do for logs.”
    The boys began hauling tree trunks out of the nearest patch of jungle. When they had gathered about a dozen, Frank lined them up in a row. Joe pulled down some thick, sinuous creepers from the trees to use as rope. Skillfully they braided the creepers over and around the logs. The result was a seaworthy raft. Flat driftwood provided a pair of paddles.
    The boys gave their craft a stiff push into deep water. Then they scrambled onto it and began paddling toward the middle of the Amazon.
    The strong current caught the raft, propelling it along at a rapid rate. “No use fighting this,” Joe panted. “The best we can do is travel on a diagonal line downstream.”
    Dipping their makeshift paddles rhythmically into the water, the boys managed to guide their raft toward the lanes followed by river traffic.
    Frank ceased paddling and looked around atthe bare expanse of water, sky, and jungle. “We seem to have the Amazon all to ourselves.”
    Joe also shipped his paddle. “Well, we’re far enough out, Frank. There’ll be boats coming by and we’ll be able to hitch a ride back to Manaus.”
    He rose to his feet, shaded his eyes with his hands, and squinted up the river. A dot on the horizon grew larger. The outline of a substantial vessel took shape.
    â€œTour ship coming,” Joe announced jubilantly. “I’ll flag it down.” Taking off his shirt, he fastened it to his paddle by the cuffs. Then he began to wave his