The two amphibians were gambolling. So intent were they that the swimmers were unnoticed, but for half a minute after the hippos had passed Denbigh and O'Hara floated motionless, not trusting to swim forward another foot.
At length, after a seemingly interminable space of time, the mangrove-covered shore loomed up against the moonlit sky. The banks, thrown into deep shadow, were invisible, until O'Hara, who was now leading, felt his foot touch the slimy ooze that fringed the shore.
With feelings of relief the Irishman waded to the bank and awaited Denbigh's emergence from the river.
"Thank God," he muttered fervently as Denbigh joined him. "Now, what's the move?"
"Dress," replied his chum laconically.
The two men unfastened their bundles, and proceeded to sacrifice one of their scanty stock of handkerchiefs as a towel. To allow the foetid fresh water to dry on them would be courting a speedy attack of black-water fever.
"We can't see the Myra," whispered O'Hara. "How shall we know where to 'kick-off' when we return?"
"Bend that damp handkerchief on to one of the bushes," replied Denbigh. "We'll have to take jolly good care to——"
His words ended abruptly, and he found himself sitting on the soft ground. In order to facilitate the dressing performance he had sat down upon what he imagined to be a log. The "log" promptly lurched forward and overthrew him. It was a healthy specimen of a crocodile.