I wish I could write—No sooner said than done; but it was not so; for our future guide was not yet fit to start on such a journey. He was getting better fast, but not fast enough, and in spite of my assertions, I was not recovered from a very bad wound. In short, it seemed that the only thing to do, as we appeared to have nothing more to fear from Indians with two such guards in camp, was to send down to the boat for more of the stores, that is, enough for another fortnight’s stay, when the difficulty was solved by Cross one morning.
“I’ve been turning it over in my mind, Master Nat, about carrying that chap down to the boat, but the doctor says it would open his wound again and throw him back, so that won’t do.”
“No; certainly not,” I said.
“Then I got a notion that I could knock up a sort of chair he could sit in, and me and Pete and Mrs Mapah could carry it strapped on our backs in turn.”
“Nonsense! That little woman could not carry her husband.”
“What, sir!” cried Cross laughing. “Don’t you make a mistake, sir; she’s as strong as a pony. But the doctor says it would shake him too much, so what do you say to this? S’pose I build a raft, and we go back the same as we come?”
“Through the dark cavern?”
“I don’t know no laws again’ our burning a good light, sir.”
“But how are you going to get it down the falls?”
“In bits, sir,” he said, laughing. “I should build it down yonder on the side at the bottom of the falls. Then we could swing old Dusky down with the rope, and all we should want would be a couple of bamboo poles, and there we are.”