“That’s lucky; though it will tune up later. Take a slide, now. We’ve got to hustle our breakfast, and find a way to get over the river.”
“How wide is it?” inquired Winthrope, gazing at his swollen hands.
“About three hundred yards at high tide. May be narrower at ebb.”
“Could you not build a raft?” suggested Miss Leslie.
Blake smiled at her simplicity. “Why not a boat? We’ve got a penknife.”
“Well, then, I can swim.”
“Bully for you! Guess, though, we’ll try something else. The river is chuck full of alligators. What you waiting for, Pat? We haven’t got all day to fool around here.”
Winthrope twisted the creeper about his leg and slid to the ground, doing all he could to favor his hands. He found that he could walk without pain, and at once stepped over beside Blake’s club, glancing nervously around at the jungle.
Blake jerked up the end of the creeper, and passed the loop about Miss Leslie. Before she had time to become frightened, he swung her over and lowered her to the ground lightly as a feather. He followed, hand under hand, and stood for a moment beside her, staring at the dew-dripping foliage of the jungle. Then the remains of the night’s quarry caught his eye, and he walked over to examine them.
“Say, Pat,” he called, “these don’t look like deer bones. I’d say–yes; there’s the feet–it’s a pig.”