"English chaps can't stand it, I said," repeated Mills. "They mos'ly
lie up till it's cooler."

"Ah yais."

They were now nearing the river. A steam rose over the bushes and
spiraled into the air, and the hum of water going slowly was audible.
A few minutes of walking brought them to its banks. The stream flowed
greasily and dark, some forty yards wide, but in the middle it forked
about a spit of sand not more than ten paces broad. It was a very
Lethe of a river, running oilily and with a slumberous sound, and its
reputation for crocodiles was vile.

Mills sat down and began to pull off his boots.

"As well here as anywhere," he said. "I'll try it, anyhow."

"I go back now," said the Frenchman. "Some day I come up an' see
you, eh? You like that?"

"Come along any time," replied Mills cheerfully as he slung his boots
across his shoulders. "You don't think that island's a quicksand,
eh?"

The Frenchman turned and stared at it. "I do' know," he answered.
"Per'aps. You goin' to try, eh?"

"Yes, I'll have a shot at it. You can mos'ly trust yourself on 'em if
you walk light an' quick. But we'll see."