By the village drinking-place the river had overflowed the bank. It had torn up a couple of trees, which now lay branches downward in the water, arresting wreckage. It had surged strongly against the boxes, driving them from their place, but not destroying them. It had heaped them with drift, and coloured them a yellowish red. The footmarks of the bearers were thickly printed in the mud there. They must have arrived there in the early morning, when the waters were beginning to fall.
"They've been busy," said Roger. All the boxes had been broken open. Their contents were tumbled in the mud in all directions.
"Look here," said Lionel. "What do you make of these marks?" In one place the mud had been planed smooth in a long plastering smear, ending in a notch or narrow groove.
"That was made by the boat," said Roger.
"Yes," said Lionel. "That was the boat. You can see the puncture in the mud there. That was made by the projecting screw in the false nose. You remember the screw we put in at Malakoto? They shoved off here."
"Yes. No doubt. That is the screw. So they've sampled the goods and gone."
"That is so. They've robbed us and run away."
"And we are stranded in the heart of the wilderness?"
"We are alone, three hundred miles from any white man."
"Yes. Then we are alone," said Roger. "We are alone here." The words thrilled him. They were meaning words.