“Yes. There’s one trying to cross the river now.”
“What did I tell you, Mr Roberts?” growled old Dick, softly.
“Here, give me your rifle, marine;” said Bob, excitedly. “I should like a shot at a tiger.”
“Silence in that boat!” said Captain Smithers sharply; and the oars went on dipping softly, while Bob Roberts sat and listened till the panting noise of the swimming creature died away.
“I wonder whether Ensign Long’s in the expedition?” said Bob, after a pause.
“Yes, sir; please I see him,” said one of the sailors. “He got into one of the boats, wrapped up in a big grey great-coat.”
“I hope he won’t get wounded this time,” said Bob. And the men all laughed; for Ensign Long’s wound was a subject that afforded them no little amusement.
Then the procession went on, the boats gliding along in wonderful silence. Sometimes a glimpse of the dark foliage told them that they were a little too near either bank, but on the whole the Malay led them a very correct course along the centre of the stream, which wound here and there, sometimes contracting its banks, sometimes widening out, but always running swift, deep, and strongly, downward towards the sea.
The mist grew thicker, and hung so low down upon the water that at last the boats had to proceed very slowly, a rope being paid out from one to the other, so that there should be no mistake, otherwise it was quite within the range of possibility that one or the other would go astray, and be wanting at some critical time. A similar plan was carried out with the sampan, during the latter part of the journey, for it was often invisible; and so at last they felt their way onward in silence, till the Malay allowed his sampan to drift alongside the bows of the leading boat, and whispered to the interpreter his conviction that they were close up to the stockade.
“Might be anywhere,” muttered the midshipman.