“If it was a bend of the coast, sir, the tide wouldn’t be flowing in like that. It’s a good-sized tidal river, sir, and we are going to sail in as far as we can get before dark, and if all turns out as I expect, we shall be carried in past the mangroves and be able to moor to-night perhaps to forest trees.”
“And if we don’t?” said Rodd.
“Why, then we shall anchor, and find plenty of good holding ground.”
The tide carried them in rapidly, and a nice soft breeze filled the sails, bearing them onward till the mangrove swamp on either hand began to close in rapidly, while towards evening they were gliding where the banks were about a mile apart, and just at sunset muddy patches began to make their appearance, upon which Rodd noticed three times over, portions of the rugged trunks of trees that had been denuded of every branch as they floated down with the stream.
All at once, just where the mud glistened ruddily in the rays of the setting sun, Rodd started, for a thick stumpy tree trunk suddenly began to move gently, then glided a few feet over the mud, and finally went into the river with a tremendous splash.
“Why, what’s that?” cried Rodd excitedly.
“Croc,” grunted the skipper gruffly. “Thousands of them along here.”