“That we will,” I answered, and soon had my boots slung around my neck. Alano followed my example, and with extreme caution we waded down and out to the first rock.
“Any alligators?” I cried, coming to a pause.
“No 'gators here,” answered Jorge. “Water too swift—'gators no like dat.”
This was comforting news, and on I went again, until I was up to my knees. The water felt very refreshing, and I proposed to Alano that we take advantage of our situation and have a bath.
“I feel tremendously dirty, and it will brace us up. We needn’t lose more than ten minutes.”
My Cuban chum was willing, and we decided to take our bath from the opposite shore. Jorge declined to go swimming and said he would try his luck at fishing, declaring that the river held some excellent specimens of the finny tribe.
We had now reached the middle of the stream. I was two yards behind Alano, while Jorge was some distance ahead. We were crossing in a diagonal fashion, as the fording rocks ran in that direction.
Suddenly Alano muttered an exclamation in Spanish. “It’s mighty swift out here!” he cried. “Look out, Mark, or——”
He did not finish. I saw him slip and go down, and the next instant his body was rolling over and over as it was being carried along by the rushing current.
“Jorge, Alano is gone!” I yelled, and took a hasty step to catch hold of my chum’s coat. The movement was a fatal one for me, and down I went precisely as Alano had done. The water entered my eyes and mouth, and for the moment I was blinded and bewildered. I felt my feet touch bottom, but in the deeper water to obtain a footing was out of the question.