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212 "We've got to swim for it. Can you swim at all, Anne? Not that it matters. I can get you across. It's the wrong side for a boattoo many rocks, but the right side for swimming, and the right side for Livingstone."

"I can swim a little—farther than that. What's the danger, Harry?" For I had seen the grim look on his face. "Sharks?"

"No, you little goose. Sharks live in the sea. But you're sharp, Anne. Crocs, that's the trouble."

"Crocodiles?"

"Yes, don't think of them—or say your prayers, whichever you feel inclined."

We plunged in. My prayers must have been efficacious, for we reached the shore without adventure, and drew ourselves up wet and dripping on the bank.

"Now for Livingstone. It's rough going, I'm afraid, and wet clothes won't make it any better. But it's got to be done."

That walk was a nightmare. My wet skirts flapped round my legs, and my stockings were soon torn off by the thorns. Finally I stopped, utterly exhausted. Harry came back to me.

"Hold up, honey. I'll carry you for a bit."

That was the way I came into Livingstone, slung across his shoulder like a sack of coals. How he did it for all that way, I don't know. The first faint light of dawn was just breaking. Harry's friend was a young man of twenty odd who kept a store of native curios. His name was Ned—perhaps he had another, but I never heard it. He didn't seem in the least surprised to see Harry walk in, dripping wet, holding an equally dripping female by the hand. Men are very wonderful.

He gave us food to eat, and hot coffee, and got our clothes dried for us whilst we rolled ourselves in Man-