“Come along,” said Bridget. “Puss, puss, puss!” And Sinbad, in his own good time, moved slowly after her.
“Try with a bit of string,” said Titty, and took a coiled up bit from her pocket, tied a small handful of dry grass at one end of it and gave it to Bridget. Bridget walked backwards, jerking the little bundle of grass along the ground. Sinbad crouched, leapt after it, rolled over, crouched and leapt again. “He likes that kind of exploring,” said Bridget.
“Good,” said Titty. “Keep him going.”
She walked slowly on. The saltings below the dyke grew narrower, and were now no more than a fringe to the wide expanse of mud that stretched across from the island to the mainland instead of the bright, shimmering sea that they had seen from the deck of the Goblin when they had sailed into the Creek. A ribbon of water was spreading in the middle of the mud. Tide was coming up. Soon the mud would be a sea once more.
In the saltings, close below the dyke, was a narrow ditch, leading out towards the mud. At the side of the ditch was a landing stage made of a few planks, and a big heavy rowing boat lay beside it. Titty carefully marked it on her map and wrote “Native Harbour”. That, she decided, must be the boat the native from the kraal used when he could not use his cart.
She was walking on, looking far out over the mud. Suddenly she stopped. On the edge of the ribbon of water out there were wading birds. But the water, slowly rising, was lapping at something that no birds could have made. If it had been sand, she might have thought that someone had been playing there with a spade and bucket. But no one builds castles in the mud.
She pulled out the telescope. Yes. She could see that the mud had been freshly turned, as if with a spade. Savages after all? It was not piled high enough for even the smallest savage to hide behind it. But someone had certainly been digging. With the telescope she followed a long line of diggings, here quite a big heap of mud, there only a few spadefuls turned over. There were marks in the mud going from one digging to the next. The line of marks curved in over the mud towards the island. It looked as if it ended by a sort of promontory, where there were no saltings, and the mud came close to the foot of the dyke. Whoever had done that digging might have come ashore there. He might be behind the promontory. Or he might have crossed the dyke and be on the island itself, hiding, perhaps, on the landward side of the dyke.
Titty looked back. Bridget, stooping down, was coming slowly along, enticing Sinbad as she went. There was no sign of anybody moving on the meadows. John, Susan and Roger were not in sight. By now, she thought they must be at the other end of the island, somewhere beyond the part she had already called the “prairie”, where a large herd of cows were calmly grazing, not suspecting for a moment that they had been promoted to be buffaloes. The other party of explorers would be coming round behind them. Whoever had done those diggings might be between the two parties, or somewhere in the middle of the island. She turned her telescope on the buffaloes. Yes, some of them had stopped grazing, but they were looking all in the same direction, not towards the middle of the island but the other way. They must have sighted the surveying party. Not a single buffalo seemed to be interested in anything between them and herself. It was safe to go forward.
“Bridget,” she called, not very loud. “Pick up Sinbad and come along.”
“Wait for us,” called Bridget.
“Hurry up.”
Titty looked first one way and then the other along the green dyke. She looked across the wide flat meadowland. There was not a moving thing to be seen. No. Yes. Those were rabbits close to the railing that enclosed the native kraal. But the rabbits were peaceably feeding. And the birds, too, all seemed busy about their own affairs. Those must be pigeons near the kraal. Those were peewits on the meadows. Well, there are no fussier birds than peewits when human beings are about, but these seemed not to have a care in the world. No. They were quite safe in moving on. There was no danger of any savages cutting them off from the camp. And John, Susan and Roger must be much more than half-way round by now. It ought to be safe to go as far as the promontory.
“Come on, Bridget. … There’s something we’ve got to go and look at.”
“Where?” asked Bridget. “Those birds?” She looked out over the mud, following Titty’s pointing finger.
“Don’t hold your arm out,” said Titty. “Just in case somebody might be watching us. Point like this, if you have to.” She crooked her wrist, and pointed with a finger, her hand held close in against her body. “Not the birds. Someone’s been out there on the mud.”
Already she was moving on, along the top of the grass dyke, that divided the meadowland from the reedy saltings and the shining mud beyond them. She could see that line of diggings leading over the mud towards the point. From there she would be able to see just what those marks were like, that made a trail from digging to digging. Would they be the prints of naked feet? Or did these savages wear boots?
As she came nearer to the point, she noticed something else. At long intervals a withy, a thin, leafless sapling, was stuck upright in the mud. There was one, and then another beyond that, a long line of them leading away over the mud towards the mainland. As she came nearer she saw that they marked a cart track.
“That’s how the native from the farm gets to the town to do his shopping,” she said to Bridget. “He gets across at low water, when the tide’s out like this. And then when the tide comes up if it isn’t too deep he comes splashing across in his horse and cart, and those little trees show him where the road is. That’s what he meant when he said he’d come across the Wade.”
“Oh,” said Bridget. “Was it him that was digging in the mud?”
“We’ll soon know,” said Titty. “We’ll look at those footmarks. The native was wearing sea-boots, just like ours. But … I say … Giminy … The native never made tracks like those.”
She waited for Bridget no longer, but ran forward. There was something very funny about those footmarks. They seemed … She hardly knew what they seemed. The boots of the native had certainly been big, but she did not think a boot had ever been made to make prints as big as these.
Bridget, clutching the unwilling Sinbad, panted up to find Titty staring at huge round marks in the mud. Yes. They were a track all right, but what native could leave huge round footprints nearly two feet wide? Two lines of these enormous prints, two double lines, lay on the mud stretching far away till they disappeared at the edge of the incoming tide.
“Giminy,” said Titty. “They aren’t human footprints at all. They’re the hoofmarks of a mastodon.” She looked across towards the mainland. Those marshes might stretch for miles. Anything might live in them and nobody would know.
“What’s a mastodon?” said Bridget. “A sort of savage?”
“THE NATIVE NEVER MADE TRACKS LIKE THOSE…”
“No. A sort of elephant.”
“With a trunk?”
“Yes. Hairy all over.”
“Horrible?” Bridget looked at the huge prints on the mud and then anxiously over her shoulder.
“No. Gorgeous,” said Titty, hurriedly.
“Oh. Then it’s all right,” said Bridget.
“Quite all right,” said Titty, though she did not think so.
“Hullo!”
They had gone down to the edge of the mud to have a closer look at the hoofmarks, but at that shout Titty ran up again to the top of the dyke. Yes. There they were, John, Susan and Roger, coming along on the other side of the point. She beckoned eagerly.
In another two minutes they joined her. Roger was telling her their news long before they arrived. “We’ve been all round,” he shouted. “We’ve been to the kraal. We’ve been to the edge of the sea. We’ve seen those anchored dhows. And there are islands. Lots of them. Some all sand. Some just marshy, with bushes on them. And there’s a huge lot of blackberries close to our camp. What’s the matter?”
John as he came was looking at his map. “We’ve got all the bearings clear,” he called out. “
We’ve just got to work them out with the rulers. I say, what is it?”
“Come and look,” said Titty.
John and Roger dumped surveying instruments and bamboo poles on the top of the dyke, and ran down to the edge of the mud. The others followed.
“What on earth are they?” said John.
“It’s a sort of elephant,” said Bridget. “Titty says it’s quite all right.”
“The hoofmarks of a mastodon,” said Titty. “At first I thought they were the footprints of a savage, but they can’t be.”
“Too big,” said John, peering about on the ground. “It’s by itself, whatever it is. There’s no sign of a human being.”
“Perhaps there was a human being on its back,” said Roger.
He ran out on the mud to have a nearer look, and instantly sank to the top of his boots. He floundered, trying to pull out first one foot and then the other. He fell forward on his hands and lifted them, black to the elbow, dripping and shiny.
“Oh, Roger!” cried Susan.
“Black gloves,” said Bridget.
“Come out, Roger!” said Susan.
“I’m coming,” said Roger. He tugged mightily, left one boot in the mud, then the other, sank to his knees, lost both socks, and staggered ashore. He put up a dripping black hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, and grinned at them, a sort of piebald negro.
John, stepping with great care, sinking deep but keeping his balance, rescued Roger’s boots and threw them to the foot of the sea wall. It was no use even trying to rescue the socks. John, balancing himself with his arms, had a good look at those enormous prints. Then, slowly, using his hands to keep his boots on, he rejoined the others.
“It’s very rum,” he said. “The thing can’t be a mastodon or any kind of elephant, or it would have sunk in deeper than Roger or me. Those hoofmarks hardly go in at all.”
“Whatever it is, it’s alive,” said Titty.
“I’ve got most of the mud out of the inside,” said Roger, who had been wiping out his boots with a handful of grass.
“We’ll never get them properly dry,” said Susan. “Come along. Let’s get back to the camp.”
“It must be nearly time to put another mealstick in the dial,” said Roger.
“And Sinbad’s thinking about that milk,” said Bridget.
Titty felt a little disappointed. Nobody seemed to take those hoofmarks seriously.
She showed John her map.
“Jolly good,” said John. “We can check it by taking bearings from that place where the dyke turns round at right angles. Half a minute. We want a bearing to see how that road to the mainland lies over the mud.”
“I’m going to put in the buffaloes,” said Titty. “And we’ll have to call all this the Red Sea.” She waved her hand towards the muddy plain with the cart road across it with withies sticking up. Already the water was creeping over the mud towards the road, a tongue of water from the east moving slowly on to meet another tongue of water from the west.
“Why?” said Roger.
“Pharaoh and the Israelites,” said Titty. “Just the place for them. The waters divide when the tide goes down and they can rush across where those sticks mark the road, and then the water comes back from both ends and joins and sweeps them away, chariots and all.”
“Right you are,” said John. “Red Sea. I’ve put down the ford. That’s what he means by the Wade. At high water we’ll take Wizard and sail across it.”
“If it’s safe to leave the island,” said Titty. “We haven’t seen any savages yet. But what about those mastodon marks? They must have been made by something.”
“Not a mastodon anyway,” said John.
“Well, if it isn’t a mastodon, what is it?”
“We’ll keep a look-out,” said John, “and see if we can find any more. But I think the native was just rotting. I don’t believe there’s a single savage about. I say, come on. Susan and Bridget are miles ahead.”
Susan, thinking more of the explorers’ dinner than of strange hoofprints, had picked up Sinbad and was hurrying back to the camp with Bridget close behind her, keeping up with two steps and a run. The others followed.
“Don’t go so fast,” said Roger. “It’s awful with bare feet.”
Ten minutes later he had forgotten they were bare. Susan had hardly reached the camp before they heard the frantic blast of the mate’s whistle, and saw her beckoning, looking first one way and then the other and then waving again. She was not making proper signals. But anybody could see that what she meant was “Come as quick as you jolly well can.” Something serious had happened. John, Titty and even Roger, covered with mud and carrying boots as well as a bamboo pole, broke into a run.
Susan was standing by the fireplace, pointing. Bridget was close to her, as close as she could get.
Susan had a finger to her lips. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I oughtn’t to have whistled. Someone’s been in the camp. Look at that!”
A stick, painted red and green and blue, and carved so that it looked like a snake, with a long narrow head, was stuck upright in the ground. Round the neck of the snake were hung four small yellow shells.
“Gosh!” said John. “What about our boat?”
He put down compass and drawing board and bamboo poles, and raced down to the edge of the saltings, Titty, Roger, and Susan close behind.
“I’m coming too,” shouted Bridget, and Susan waited for her.
The tide was rising in Goblin Creek. The Wizard was as they had left her, with her anchor well up on the saltings. There was still a strip of mud between her and the water.
“The mastodon,” cried Titty. “It’s been here too.”
From the edge of the saltings, close by the Wizard, a double line of those same enormous prints crossed the mud.
“Look, look,” shouted Roger. “Too late. …”
“What? Where?”
Roger was pointing. “A boat. I saw it. It was just going behind the other island.”
The others looked up the Creek where Roger was pointing.
“We can’t see it now,” said Roger. “It simply disappeared into the land.”
“Are you sure?” said John.
“As eggs is eggs,” said Roger.
WHAT SUSAN FOUND IN THE CAMP
“Who was in the boat?”
“I didn’t see that,” said Roger. “I just saw the stern of the boat disappear. We’d be seeing it now if it wasn’t for the land being in the way.”
“Come on,” said John. “We’ve got to get Wizard down to the water.”
In another minute he had coiled the muddy anchor rope in the bows, and Roger, barefooted, and Titty and he were hauling Wizard down along the edge of the little hard where the tops of the old piles showed above the mud and there was ground firm enough to let people move without getting stuck.
“Look here, John,” said Susan. “Are you sure we ought?”
“We must,” said John. “If it’s just a native, it won’t matter. But if it’s savages, we’ve simply got to know where we are. That snake wasn’t stuck in our camp for nothing.”
“And we must find out what makes those marks,” said Titty.
John stopped. “There may be more of them about,” he said. “Look here, Susan. Will you and Bridget guard the camp. …?”
“Susan,” said Bridget. “We’ve left Sinbad all alone there.”
“And do look at the shadow on the meal-dial,” said Roger. “I bet it’s short enough for dinner time. Put a stick to mark the place. We’ll be extra hungry after hunting mastodons.”
John and Titty were already in the boat.
“Sit on the bows, Roger,” said John, “and wash your hoofs over the side. We’ve got enough mud in already.”
The Wizard slid off into deep water. John spun her round, and with quick strong strokes of his oars and no splashes, rowed up the creek. Roger splashed first with one foot and then with the other, and his legs showed white again, as if he had been tearing black s
tockings off them.
“Quiet, Roger,” said Titty. “What’s the good of John being quiet if you make such a row.”
“Keep a good look out,” said John. “Don’t talk. Titty, you make a compass of your hand, pointing which way the boat’s nose ought to go. They may be close round the corner. If they hear somebody shouting ‘Pull right’ and ‘Pull left’ they’ll know we’re after them and get away altogether.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE MASTODON’S LAIR
TITTY SAT IN the stern of Wizard, holding one hand just above her knees, pointing, now a little to the right, now a little to the left, so that John, watching it, need not look over his shoulder to see where he was going, and could give his whole mind to driving the boat along and getting his oars in and out of the water without a splash. The tide had still a long way to rise, and they could see nothing on either side but brown mud and the green line of grass and weeds against the sky.
The small island was still joined to their own by mud. The creek bent round it on its way to the Red Sea. Nothing seemed to be moving on the water.
“Over there. Over there,” whispered Roger. “That’s where it must have gone.”
Titty’s hand pointed suddenly sharp to the right. John backwatered with his left oar and the boat spun half round. Now, for the first time, he looked over his shoulder.
In the bend of the creek, opposite the little island, was an opening. John rowed straight for it and they shot into a narrow gully far below the level of the marshes.
“There’s hardly room to row,” whispered Roger.
“Look out, Titty, I’ll have to scull over the stern.”
Titty and John changed places, and John with quick twisting strokes, drove the boat on into the gully. There was mud close on either side of them, and beyond the mud, steep banks with great holes where lumps had fallen away.
“It’s pretty shallow,” whispered John. “I was on the bottom just then. There it is again.”