"Rot," cried the Baker; "there must be a way out."
He took his paddle again, and made the canoe move fast. But behind each little mound of sand was only a bay. It was true there was no outlet.
"Is this another billabong?" he cried.
But Smith shook his head.
"This is a true river, but here is its sink," he answered. "It's not such an uncommon thing. There's one on the Humboldt River in Western America."
"And does it come up again?" asked the Baker.
"How can I tell?" cried Smith impatiently. "What are we to do?"
"And how the devil can I h'answer that?" said the Baker.
They were again in the slow circle of the sinking water, moving slowly round and round.
"Did you ever see anything like this, Kitty?" asked Smith; but the girl shook her head, and was silent.