“Not for certain, sir,” cried Griggs.
“Well, then, towards where the river joined another which ran into the sea.”
“Not for certain, sir,” repeated Griggs.
“Very well, then, where it runs into some good-sized lake.”
“Not for certain, sir,” paid Griggs, so decisively that Chris laughed, “But a river must fall into something,” said Ned’s father sharply, Griggs’ interruptions having made him feel nettled.
“Yes, sir, of course; but in a desert country such as it is about here they fall into difficulties.”
“I know,” cried Chris; “Griggs means that they tumble down into those great cañons like that one on the Colorado, isn’t it, where the banks are a mile deep?”
“No, I don’t, squire,” said Griggs firmly, “though I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if we came across one of those gashes in the desert. I meant that some of the little rivers that come down from the mountains run bright and clear for a time in amongst the rocks till they get to the more level ground, and then they spread-out and grow wide and shallow so that you find they’re only up to your knees. A mile or two lower down they’re not up to your ankles, while a bit lower there’s no river at all.”
“What, gone down a sink-hole?” cried Chris.
“No, squire; spread-out and soaked away into the sand, which begins by looking dark-coloured and has patches of grass growing in it for a bit, and then you get farther and the sun has drunk up all the sand had not swallowed.”