I relit my pipe, and we retraced our steps.
In the fever swamps of Jamaica there are a few alligators, but I fear that most of the sport of the place is to be found in the imagination of the sportsmen and the tales of the native guides. Danger there is, but that is the danger of the sun and the risk of fever; and in daring these things there is little sport.
So we tramped back again and regained the sweet-scented water of the bay. We waded to the boat, and the sensation of the clear sea-water washing clean our sun-dried, muddy bodies gave us a few moments of ecstasy. But we could not linger for fear of the dread cousin of the alligator, the West Indian shark. We swam aboard, and hoisted our sail, and sailed homewards. The boat was bare of awning, and the strong, pitiless sun completed its burning work, so well begun in the swamp lands. The charred barrel had exhausted its cargo of tepid water, and there was no food. But the few hours’ sail was not unpleasant. We were enveloped in the sweet breezes of God’s fair ocean, and soothed by the fresh sea-scent. There were no miasmic exhalations, and no clouds of winged insects. The mosquito was gone, and our scorched eyes might now be closed or held half opened towards the cool breeze.
