“Here he comes, uncle,” cried Rodd, for at that moment the head of the Spaniard’s boat was rowed out from the other side of the anchored vessel, which might have been quite deserted, for not a head was to be seen.
“Hah!” cried the doctor. “I like that. It tells well for his being a trustworthy guide. So now good-bye, Count. Your son’s mine till we come back.”
The Count mastered his desire to embrace the doctor, and grasped his hand in regular English fashion, and by the time the Spaniard’s little gig, rowed by two men, had come alongside, the last farewell had taken place with the captain, who then looked over the rail and grunted out—
“Coming aboard, señor?”
“No, no; but just one word. I have been talking to my crew, and told them they are to take their orders from you till I come back. They won’t give you any trouble. Let them smoke and sleep as much as they like.”
“All right,” growled the skipper. “When shall we see you back?”
“When your señor likes,” said the Spaniard, lighting a fresh cigarette from the one which had threatened to burn his moustache. “I take the boat as far up into the forest along the little rivers till he tells me to turn back, and then we will begin to row or sail the other way.”
A few minutes later the French crew of the brig, and the men of the schooner who were to stay and help the carpenter and his mate, stood ready to give a farewell cheer. The travellers were on the boat, the rowers in their places, with their oars held upright ready to drop into the rowlocks, the little sail rolled round the mast was lying ready for use if a breeze sprang up, and Joe Cross stood right forward, boat-hook in hand, looking as smart as the rest of the crew, that is to say, just as if they had stepped off a man-of-war’s deck, and then every one well-armed, ready for the attack upon any wild creatures they encountered, or for the defence of their lives against an enemy, waited for the skipper to give the signal to start, which he did at last by raising his hand.
Then, as the boat was pushed off into the now rising tide, a mingled French and English cheer arose, full of good wishes, while of the Spaniard’s crew not a man was visible save the two in the captain’s boat, who had just reached the three-master’s stern and had begun to make fast.
The cheer was repeated as the Devon boat, in obedience to the dipping of the oars, glided farther out into mid-stream, while directly after there was a heavy swirl just beneath her bows, followed by the sudden protrusion of the huge grinning head of a fierce crocodile, the monster bent on mischief, and receiving a most unexpected salute, for Joe Cross was standing balancing his boat-hook in his hands, ready to lay it down along the thwart, but, quick almost as lightning, he gave it a twirl as he rested one foot upon the gunwale and drove it, harpoon fashion, crash into the reptile’s head.