Tom broke it down with his fore-feet and heaved himself up, still with me on his back. And the young man remarked laconically he “didn’t know there was a deep hole there!”
He led me a long way down, answering my questions about the river; but he was a man of action rather than words, and quite suddenly he reached up, and lifting me out of the saddle, set me on my feet. I gasped, but by this time I was so tired the effort to dismount would have been the last straw, and I was grateful. His boat was tied to a stone. The wide lagoon lay in front of us; with quick, gentle hands he took off the saddle, put it in the boat beside me, and telling me to hold the bridle shoved off. Tom followed with a little coaxing, his eyes fixed on the stern of the boat, and when his hoofs touched bottom again the look of relief in his face was human. Then my ferryman mounted his mare (which was tied near by) and rode with me to show me his brother’s house, where we were to stay. A little way on we came up to Transome in déshabillé—all his possessions hanging on someone’s clothes line. He was peacefully smoking, and the panama still triumphantly on his head—why it survived when a really useful hat would have been lost, I can’t say. He assured me he was perfectly all right—a little tired, but refreshed by the swim, and his sole anxiety all along had been for the camera films—the precious records of our trip.
