"By Christopher," said Crouch, "I'm weak! I don't fancy making that canoe with a jackknife."
"Nor I," said Max. "But we'll do it."
Crouch laughed.
"We will," said he, but his face was white as a ghost. Then he sat bolt upright and listened. "What's that?" he cried.
Faint in the distance was a gentle, scraping sound, which grew louder and louder as the minutes passed. Max at first could not believe the evidence of his ears. He waited expectantly, and at last heard a rippling sound, that was like the laughter of a child. He sprang to his feet, and rushing to the water's edge, looked up-stream, shading his eyes with his hand. It was, indeed, the truth--a long canoe was swinging down upon the tide.
[CHAPTER XIII--BACK TO THE UNKNOWN]
A minute later they saw that the canoe was manned by six of their own Loango boys, who made the blades of the paddles flash in the sunlight; and, moreover, they recognized the canoe as the one they had left at Date Palm Island.
Max lifted his voice and shouted from the bank. Whereat the boys ceased to paddle, and regarded them amazed. Then, recognizing their masters, they raised a shout in chorus, and drew in towards the bank.
Had these natives desired proof of the omnipotence of the Fire-gods, they could have wished for nothing more. Had they searched Central Africa from the Equator to the Zambesi, they could have found no two people more wretched-looking and forlorn. Max was utterly exhausted, and so faint that he could scarcely stand. As for Crouch, he might have been mauled by a lion.
One of the boys flung himself upon the ground, then rose to a kneeling position, and lifted his arms as in prayer.