They were now nearing the river. A steam rose over the bushes and spiraled into the air, and the hum of water going slowly was audible. A few minutes of walking brought them to its banks. The stream flowed greasily and dark, some forty yards wide, but in the middle it forked about a spit of sand not more than ten paces broad. It was a very Lethe of a river, running oilily and with a slumberous sound, and its reputation for crocodiles was vile.
Mills sat down and began to pull off his boots.
"As well here as anywhere," he said. "I'll try it, anyhow."
"I go back now," said the Frenchman. "Some day I come up an' see you, eh? You like that?"
"Come along any time," replied Mills cheerfully as he slung his boots across his shoulders. "You don't think that island's a quicksand, eh?"
The Frenchman turned and stared at it. "I do' know," he answered.
"Per'aps. You goin' to try, eh?"
"Yes, I'll have a shot at it. You can mos'ly trust yourself on 'em if you walk light an' quick. But we'll see."
The Frenchman watched him as he waded out. The black water reached no higher than his knees, but the ground was soft under foot, and he floundered anxiously.
"It sucks at you," he called. "It's all greasy."
He moved on, and came to the sand island.