How to get back?
“Almost as bad as you tacking out of the harbour, Morny,” said Rodd that evening, as the two vessels glided up the rapidly narrowing and greatly winding river.
“Oh no,” replied the French lad. “There is no tremendous storm of wind blowing, threatening to tear the sails to ribbons, no soldiers in boats using their muskets, no big guns sending heavy balls from the forts.”
“No,” said the skipper, who had overheard the remarks; “not a bit like it, Mr Rodd. It is rather awkward work, though, and we have to be always on the dodge, else the next thing would be we should go ramming our noses right in the muddy banks and getting stuck fast; and that wouldn’t do.”
“Oh, you would get off again next tide,” said Rodd carelessly.
“Mebbe,” said the skipper. “As the old country chaps at home say, we mought and we moughtn’t.”
“Look, Morny,” cried Rodd. “There’s another of those great crocs. What a thick one! Why, that one must be five-and-twenty feet long.”
“Fourteen,” grunted the skipper.
“No, no; it must have been twenty,” cried Rodd.
“Fourteen, outside,” growled the skipper. “How can you tell when you only catch sight of them on the move?”