“There, just off to your left.”
“So um are, Mass’ George. ’Gator no like um, an’ ’pit um out ’gain.”
“There: mind! Now then, quick! Catch hold.”
I had managed to check the boat enough to let the oar overtake us, and Pomp made a snatch at it, but drew back sharply with a low cry of horror.
“What’s the matter now?” I said. “Make haste; you’ll lose it.”
“Great big Injum down dah,” he whispered, hoarsely. “Um want to bite off poor Pomp arm.”
“Nonsense! How could an Indian be there?” I said, as we floated on side by side with the oar.
“Injum? Pomp say great big ’gator. You look, Mass’ George.”
“You said Indian, Pomp,” I continued, as I drew in my oar, picked up the boat-hook, and went cautiously to the side to look down into the transparent water, where, sure enough, one of the reptiles was swimming along; but it was quite a small one, and a sharp dig down with the boat-hook sent it undulating away, and I recovered the oar, passing it to Pomp with a gesture, as there arose once more a cry from the forest right away back, and it was answered in two places.
Pomp took the oar and began to row again steadily, staring back at the sandspit, now fast growing distant. Then all at once, as the faint cry arose from the forest—