“We can reach them easy, sir; but it will get deeper. You must be ready to swim. Say the word, sir, and I will lead.”
“No, no; I’ll go first.”
“That’s wasting time, sir.”
“Right. Go on.”
The words had hardly passed the subaltern’s lips when he felt a sudden snatch and a wallow in the water as if Peter had stepped out of his depth; but the lad recovered himself directly and stood firm, panting.
“All right, sir,” he whispered. “Bay’nets!”
In his excitement Archie had forgotten the crocodiles, and he now tore the sharp, triangular blade from his belt, his imagination turning the ripple and plap of water against the nearest boat into the movement of an advancing reptile.
But all the time, short as it was, Peter, with extended arm, was moving sideways in the direction where the boats had been seen, with the bayonet-holding hand stretched out in the direction of his goal, the other clutching Archie’s left with a force that seemed crushing to the owner’s fingers.
Step after step was taken sideways, with the water each minute growing deeper, and as they passed quite clear of the bushes they had left, the water pressed more and more strongly against their breasts, so that they could hardly keep their feet; while as the darkness above the flowing stream seemed to be growing more transparent, Archie turned his head to gaze back in the direction of the overhanging bushes, in the full expectation of feeling a thrust from a spear, when he felt another sudden snatch and tightened his grasp of his comrade’s hand, for Peter had reached deeper water and was borne off his feet, dragging Archie sideways.
Then there came a sharp sound as of metal against wood, a splashing or wallowing that suggested the rush of one of the loathsome reptiles, and Peter gasped out in a gurgling way, as if he had been under water: