“Come on!” called Blake, and he splashed out into the water.
The others followed within arm’s-length, nervously conscious of the rows of motionless reptiles on the mud-flat, not a hundred yards distant.
In the centre of the bar, where the water was a trifle over knee-deep, some large creature came darting down-stream beneath the surface, and passed with a violent swirl between Blake and his companions. At Miss Leslie’s scream, Blake whirled about and jabbed with his club at the supposed alligator.
“Where’s the brute? Has he got you?” he shouted.
“No, no; he went by!” gasped Winthrope. “There he is!”
A long bony snout, fringed on either side by a row of lateral teeth, was flung up into view.
“Sawfish!” said Blake, and he waded on across the bar, without further comment.
Miss Leslie had been on the point of fainting. The tone of Blake’s voice revived her instantly.
There were no more scares. A few minutes later they waded out upon a stretch of clean sand on the south side of the river. Before them the beach lay in a flattened curve, which at the far end hooked sharply to the left, and appeared to terminate at the foot of the towering limestone cliffs of the headland. A mile or more inland the river jungle edged in close to the cliffs; but from there to the beach the forest was separated from the wall of rock by a little sandy plain, covered with creeping plants and small palms. The greatest width of the open space was hardly more than a quarter of a mile.
Blake paused for a moment at high-tide mark, and Winthrope instantly squatted down to nurse his ankle.