“I'm done for,” Martin said quietly “my back is broken. Did the crocodile get the boy?”
“Crocodile!” said Grayling in astonishment. “Did you fire at a crocodile? Who are you? Are you a white man?”
“Never mind who I am,” he gasped; “let me lie here. Look,” and he pointed to a bullet-hole in his stomach; “it's gone clean through me and smashed my backbone. Let me stay as I am.”
He never spoke again, and died whilst a litter was being made to carry him down to the beach.
THE RIVER OF DREAMS
I
There is a river I know which begins its life in a dark, sunless canyon high up amid the thick forest-clad spurs of the range which traverses the island from east to west. Here, lying deep and silent, is a pool, almost encompassed by huge boulders of smooth, black rock, piled confusedly together, yet preserving a certain continuity of outline where their bases touch the water's edge. Standing far up on the mountainside you can, from one certain spot alone, discern it two hundred feet below, and a thick mass of tangled vine and creepers stretching across its western side, through which the water flows on its journey to the sea.
A narrow native path, used only by hunters of the wild pigs haunting the depths of the gloomy mountain forest, led me to it one close, steaming afternoon. I had been pigeon shooting along the crests of the ridges, and having shot as many birds as I could carry, I decided to make a short cut down to the level ground, where I was sure of finding water, resting awhile and then making my way home along the beach to the village.