While awaiting the return of darkness, Denbigh retrieved the handkerchief he had left as a mark, and wrapping it round the breech of the captured rifle, buried the weapon in the soft earth. It might, he argued, come in handy within the next few days. Beyond that time the rifle would be rapidly attacked by rust, for on the East Coast of Africa the action of corrosion is almost as quick as in the moist air of the Gold Coast.
He was dubious concerning the bayonet. It had a much larger blade than the British article, and its back was furnished with a formidable double row of teeth to within six inches of the point. With it a man might fell a fairly large-size tree in an hour.
"Pity to waste it," declared Denbigh. "Only it's too long to hide under my clothes without great risk of its being spotted. On the other hand, it may come in jolly useful."
"Break it in two," suggested his chum. "Even four inches of the blade might be handy."
Wrapping his coat round the end of the blade in order to protect his hands, the sub brought the flat of the steel smartly against his knee. To his disgust the bayonet did not snap, as he fully expected it to do. It bent, and instead of flying back when the pressure was released it remained bent.
"Good old Solingen steel!" exclaimed Denbigh disgustedly. "Same rotten stuff that our cutlass-bayonets were made of in the '85 Soudan campaign."
All efforts to break the bayonet failed. The metal was so non-elastic that the sub gave up the attempt and hurled it into the mud.
"Time!" he exclaimed. "It's getting dark again."
The men stripped, and made their clothes into bundles as before. To return to the Myra with their garments shedding streams of turgid water would never do, since they had no other clothes.
"Ugh!" ejaculated O'Hara as his feet touched the loathsome slime. "I can't say I'm hankering after a mud bath. Can't say I like the rotten turnip-smelling water any better."