“Now, Miss Leslie,” he began, “it’s little more than half an hour to sundown; so, if you please, if you’re quite ready, we’d best be starting.”
“Is it far?”
“Not so very. But we’ve got to chase through the jungle. Are you sure you’re quite ready?”
“Quite, thank you. But how about Mr. Winthrope’s ankle?”
“He’ll ride as far as the trees. I can’t squeeze through with him, though.”
“I shall walk all the way,” put in Winthrope.
“No, you won’t. Climb aboard,” replied Blake, and catching up his club, he stooped for Winthrope to mount his back. As he rose with his burden, Miss Leslie caught sight of his coat, which still lay in a roll beside the palm trunk.
“How about your coat, Mr. Blake?” she asked. “Should you not put it on?”
“No; I’m loaded now. Have to ask you to look after it. You may need it before morning, anyway. If the dews here are like those in Central America, they are d-darned liable to bring on malarial fever.”
Nothing more was said until they had crossed the open space between the palms and the belt of jungle along the river. At other times Winthrope and Miss Leslie might have been interested in the towering screw-palms, festooned to the top with climbers, and in the huge ferns which they could see beneath the mangroves, in the swampy ground on their left. Now, however, they were far too concerned with the question of how they should penetrate the dense tangle of thorny brush and creepers which rose before them like a green wall. Even Blake hesitated as he released Winthrope, and looked at Miss Leslie’s costume. Her white skirt was of stout duck; but the flimsy material of her waist was ill-suited for rough usage.