As Winthrope had succeeded in dragging himself to and from the headland without a collapse, the following morning, as soon as the dew was dry, Blake called out all hands for the expedition. He was in the best of humors, and showed unexpected consideration by presenting Winthrope with a cane, which he had cut and trimmed during the night.

Having sent Miss Leslie to fill the whiskey flask with spring water, he dropped three cocoanut-shell bowls, a piece of meat and a lump of salt into one of the earthenware pots, and slung all over his shoulder in the antelope skin. With his bow hung over the other shoulder, knife and arrows in his belt, and his big club in hand, he looked ready for any contingency.

“We’ll hit first for the mouth of the river,” he said. “I’m going on ahead. If I’m not in sight when you come up, pick a tree where the ground is dry, and wait.”

“But I say, Blake,” replied Winthrope, “I see animals over in the coppices, and you should know that I am physically unable–”“Nothing but antelope,” interrupted Blake. “I’ve seen them enough now to know them twice as far off. And you can bet on it they’d not be there if any dangerous beast was in smelling distance.”

“That is so clever of you, Mr. Blake,” remarked Miss Leslie.

“Simple enough when you happen to think of it,” responded Blake. “Yes; the only thing you’ve got to look out for’s the ticks in the grass. They’ll keep you interested. They bit me up in great shape.”

He scowled at the recollection, nodded by way of emphasis, and was off like a shot. The edge of the plain beneath the cliff was strewn with rocks, among which, even with Miss Leslie’s help, Winthrope could pick his way but slowly. Before they were clear of the rough ground, they saw Blake disappear among the mangroves.

The ticks proved less annoying than they had apprehended after Blake’s warning. But when they approached the mouth of the river, they were alarmed to hear, above the roar of the surf, loud snorting, such as could only be made by large animals. Fearful lest Blake had roused and angered some forest beast, they veered to the right, and ran to hide behind a clump of thorns. Winthrope sank down exhausted the moment they reached cover; but Miss Leslie crept to the far end of the thicket and peered around.

“Oh, look here!” she cried. “It’s a whole herd of elephants trying to cross the river mouth where we did, and they’re being drowned, poor things!”

“Elephants?” panted Winthrope, and he dragged himself forward beside her. “Why, so there are; quite a drove of the beasts. Yet, I must say, they appear smaller–ah, yes; see their heads. They must be the hippos Blake saw.”

“Those ugly creatures? I once saw some at the zoo. Just the same, they will be drowned. Some are right in the surf!”

“I can’t say, I’m sure, Miss Genevieve, but I have an idea that the beasts are quite at home in the water. I fancy they enjoy surf bathing as keenly as ourselves.”

“I do believe you are right. There is one going in from the quiet water. But look at those funny little ones on the backs of the others!”

“Must be the baby hippos,” replied Winthrope, indifferently. “If you please, I’ll take a pull at the flask. I am very dry.”

When he had half emptied the flask, he stretched out in the shade to doze. But Miss Leslie continued to watch the movements of the snorting hippos, amused by the ponderous antics of the grown ones in the surf, and the comic appearance of the barrel-like infants as they mounted the backs of their obese mothers.

Presently Blake came out from among the mangroves, and walked across to the beach, a few yards away from the huge bathers. To all appearances, they paid as little attention to him as he to them. Miss Leslie glanced about at Winthrope. He was fast asleep. She waited a few moments to see if the hippopotami would attack Blake. They continued to ignore him, and gaining courage from their indifference, she stepped out from behind the thicket, and advanced to where Blake was crouched on the beach. When she came up, she saw beside him a heap of oysters, which he was opening in rapid succession.

“Hello! You’re just in time to help,” he called. “Where’s Win!”

“Asleep behind those bushes.”

“Worst thing he could do. But lend a hand, and we’ll shuck these oysters before rousting him out. You can rinse those I’ve opened. Fill the pot with water, and put them in to soak.”

“They look very tempting. How did you chance to find them?”“Saw ’em on the mangrove roots at low tide, first time I nosed around here. Tide was well up to-day; but I managed to get these all right with a little diving. Only trouble, the skeets most ate me alive.”

Miss Leslie glanced at her companion’s dry clothing, and came back to the oysters themselves. “These look very tempting. Do you like them raw?”

“Can’t say I like them much any way, as a rule. But if I did, I wouldn’t eat this mess raw.”

“Yes?”

“This must be the dry season here, and the river is running mighty clear. Just the same, it’s nothing more than liquid malaria. We’ll not eat these oysters till they’ve been pasteurized.”

“If the water is so dangerous, I fear we will suffer before we can return,” replied Miss Leslie, and she held up the flask.

“What!” exclaimed Blake. “Half gone already? That was Winthrope.”

“He was very thirsty. Could we not boil a potful of the river water?”

“Yes, when the ebb gets strong, if we run too dry. First, though, we’ll make a try for cocoanuts. Let’s hit out for the nearest grove now. The main thing is to keep moving.”

As he spoke, Blake caught up the pot and his club, and started for the thorn clump, leaving the skin, together with the meat and the salt, for Miss Leslie to carry. Winthrope was wakened by a touch of Blake’s foot, and all three were soon walking away from the seashore, just within the shady border of the mangrove wood.

At the first fan-palm Blake stopped to gather a number of leaves, for their palm-leaf hats were now cracked and broken. A little farther on a ruddy antelope, with lyrate horns, leaped out of the bush before them and dashed off towards the river before Blake could string his bow. As if in mockery of his lack of readiness, a troupe of large green monkeys set up a wild chattering in a tree above the party.

“I say, Miss Jenny, do you think you can lug the pot, if we go slow? It isn’t far now.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good for you, little woman! That’ll give me a chance to shoot quick.”

They moved on again for a hundred yards or more; but though Blake kept a sharp lookout both above and below, he saw no game other than a few small birds and a pair of blue wood-pigeons. When he sought to creep up on the latter, they flew into the next tree. In following them, he came upon a conical mound of hard clay, nearly four feet high.“Hello; this must be one of those white anthills,” he said, and he gave the mound a kick.

Instantly a tiny object whirred up and struck him in the face.

“Whee!” he exclaimed, springing back and striking out. “A hornet! No; it’s a bee!”

“Did it sting you?” cried Miss Leslie.

“Sting? Keep back; there’s a lot more of ’em. Sting? Oh, no; he only hypodermicked me with a red-hot darning needle! Shy around here. There’s a whole swarm of the little devils, and they’re hopping mad. Hear ’em buzz!”

“But where is their hive?” asked Winthrope, as all three drew back behind the nearest bushes.

“Guess they’ve borrowed that ant-hill,” replied Blake, gingerly fingering the white lump which marked the spot where the bee had struck him.

“Wouldn’t it be delightful if we had some honey?” exclaimed Miss Leslie.

“By Jove, that really wouldn’t be half bad!” chimed in Winthrope.

“Maybe we can, Miss Jenny; only we’ll need a fire to tackle those buzzers. Guess it’ll be as well to let them cool off a bit also. The cocoanuts are only a little way ahead now. Here; give me the pot.”

They soon came to a small grove of cocoanut palms, where Blake threw down his club and bow and handed his burning-glass to Miss Leslie.

“Here,” he said; “you and Win start a fire. It’s early yet, but I’m thinking we’ll all be ready enough for oyster stew.”

“How about the meat?” asked Miss Leslie.

“Keep that till later. Here goes for our dessert.”

Selecting one of the smaller palms, Blake spat on his hands, and began to climb the slender trunk. Aided by previous experiences, he mounted steadily to the top. The descent was made with even more care and steadiness, for he did not wish to tear the skin from his hands again.

“Now, Win,” he said, as he neared the bottom and sprang down, “leave the cooking to Miss Leslie, and husk some of those nuts. You won’t more’n have time to do it before the stew is ready.”

Winthrope’s response was to draw out his penknife. Blake stretched himself at ease in the shade, but kept a critical eye on his companions. Although Winthrope’s fingers trembled with weakness, he worked with a precision and rapidity that drew a grunt of approval from Blake. Presently Miss Leslie, who had been stirring the stew with a twig, threw in a little salt, and drew the pot from the fire.“En avant, gentlemen! Dinner is served,” she called gayly.

“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “Oh; sure. Hold on, Miss Jenny. You’ll dump it all.”

He wrapped a wisp of grass about the pot, and filled the three cocoanut bowls. The stew was boiling hot; but they fished up the oysters with the bamboo forks that Blake had carved some days since. By the time the oysters were eaten, the liquor in the bowl was cool enough to drink. The process was repeated until the pot had been emptied of its contents.

“Say, but that was something like,” murmured Blake. “If only we’d had pretzels and beer to go with it! But these nuts won’t be bad.”

When they finished the cocoanuts, Winthrope asked for a drink of water.

“Would it not be best to keep it until later?” replied Miss Leslie.

“Sure,” put in Blake. “We’ve had enough liquid refreshments to do any one. If I don’t look out, you’ll both be drinking river water. Just bear in mind the work I’d have to carve a pair of gravestones. No; that flask has got to do you till we get home. I don’t shin up any more telegraph poles to-day.”

“Would it not be best for Mr. Winthrope to rest during the noon hours?”“’Fraid not, Miss Jenny. We’re not on t’other side of Jordan yet, and there’s no rest for the weary this side.”

“What odd expressions you use, Mr. Blake!”

“Just giving you the reverse application of one of those songs they jolly us with in the mission churches–”

“I’m sure, Mr. Blake–”

“Me, too, Miss Jenny! So, as that’s settled, we’ll be moving. Chuck some live coals in the pot, and come on.”

He started off, weapons in hand. Winthrope made a languid effort to take possession of the pot. But Miss Leslie pushed him aside, and wrapping all in the antelope skin, slung it upon her back.

“The brute!” exclaimed Winthrope. “To leave such a load for you, when he knew that I can do so little!”

The girl met his outburst with a brave attempt at a smile. “Please try to look at the bright side, Mr. Winthrope. Really, I believe he thinks it is best for us to exert ourselves.”

“He has other opinions with which we of the cultured class would hardly agree, Miss Leslie. Consider his command that we shall go thirsty until he permits us to return to the cliffs. The man’s impertinence is intolerable. I shall go to the river and drink when I choose.”“Oh, but the danger of malaria!”

“Nonsense. Malaria, like yellow fever, comes only from the bite of certain species of mosquitoes. If we have the fever, it will be entirely his fault. We have been bitten repeatedly this morning, and all because he must compel us to come with him to this infected lowland.”

“Still, I think we should do what Mr. Blake says.”

“My dear Miss Genevieve, for your sake I will endeavor not to break with the fellow. Only, you know, it is deuced hard to keep one’s temper when one considers what a bounder–what an unmitigated cad–”

“Stop! I will not listen to another word!” exclaimed the girl, and she hurried after Blake, leaving Winthrope staring in astonishment.

“My word!” he muttered; “can it be, after all I’ve done–and him, of all the low fellows–”

He stood for several moments in deep thought. The look on his sallow face was far from pleasant.