“Titty,” said Bridget, “it isn’t true.”
“What isn’t?”
The Mastodon was shaking hands with Susan and did not hear her answer: “You said he had a trunk.”
But the next minute she had decided that he had a nice grin, and was shaking hands with him herself, though, looking closely at him, she saw that he was not very hairy either.
“Do sit down,” said Susan.
The Mastodon looked uneasily at the carved stick which was still in the ground where he had stuck it.
“I say,” he said. “You know I’m awfully sorry for butting into your camp. I thought it was somebody else’s. I’ll take the totem away.”
“Is that what it is?” said Titty. “Is it the totem of a whole tribe?”
“Four of us, really,” said the Mastodon. “We count their grown-ups missionaries.”
“He can run over the mud like a duck,” said Roger, and after taking his first mouthful of soup, put his plate down and jumped to his feet. “I say, Susan, you forgot,” he said. The sun was high overhead, and the stick in the middle of the meal-dial cast a very short shadow. In that short shadow Roger planted the cleft stick that had already been made for the purpose, wrote “DINNER” on a bit of paper and wedged it in the cleft.
“We haven’t got a clock with us,” said John.
“It’s so that we get regular meals,” said Roger.
“It’s a fine idea,” said the Mastodon.
“Why is your totem an eel?” said Titty.
“Mud everywhere,” said the Mastodon. “Eels like it, and so do we. And we catch eels and eat them and get eelier and eelier. There’s nothing much else you can catch except flatfish and they’re dull. But eels can wriggle through anything and out of anything. An eel’s a jolly good totem to have when you don’t want to get into trouble with the missionaries. … Not that they’re half bad,” he added.
“To eat?” asked Roger.
“Not the missionaries,” grinned the Mastodon. “We’ve never tried. No. I meant the missionaries aren’t bad. They come round from Colnsea in a yacht and anchor by Flint Island and they put the rest of the tribe ashore in tents. And the Eels have each got a boat.”
“Sailing boats?” said Titty.
“Little ones,” said the Mastodon. “Dinghies.”
“We’ve seen them,” said Roger.
“What rot,” said John. “Of course we haven’t.”
“Yes we have. Pudding faces,” he added half under his breath.
“What’s their yacht like?” asked John.
“Square sterned cutter. Painted yellow. White sails. Lapwing’s her name. They’ve taken her to Pin Mill to have something done to her deck.”
“We have seen them,” said John. “They were at Pin Mill yesterday and the day before. We saw the three dinghies go alongside.”
“What did you call them?” the Mastodon asked Roger.
“Well,” said Roger. “I called them pudding faces. But that was only because they had boats and we hadn’t. Not then. I wasn’t near enough to see what their faces were like.”
“Good names for savages,” said the Mastodon, “but they’re Eels really. I thought they were still at Pin Mill, and then, when I saw your camp, I thought they must have come in yesterday while I was away.”
“Why do you say they’re eels?” said Roger.
The Mastodon hesitated. Then the words came with a rush.
“Oh look here,” he said. “If you’re marooned it won’t matter a bit your knowing. Your being explorers makes it right too. They always shove a bit in their books about savage rites and so on. That’s how we got the idea. The others won’t mind. I’ll explain to them. You see the eel is the totem of the Children of the Eel. That’s the name of the tribe. But it’s an awful secret. Even the missionaries don’t know. You see if they did they might feel they ought to stop us having human sacrifices.”
“What?” Even Susan was startled at this.
“We do it every summer holidays,” said the Mastodon. “You know, a good big fire, and necklaces dangling from the totems, and tomtoms going, and a corroboree and everyone dancing like mad and the victim waiting to be sacrificed.”
“Who’s the victim?” said Roger.
“Daisy,” said the Mastodon. “She’s a bit skinny,” he added, “to make a really good victim. But she’s the best we’ve got. …”
He was looking almost enviously at the plump Bridget as he spoke. Everybody noticed it. His words faded off into silence.
“Bridget’s not going to be a sacrifice,” said Susan hurriedly.
“She’d make a perfect beauty,” said the boy. “She’s much smaller than Daisy and much … well, you know what I mean. Some people can’t help being thin. It doesn’t matter generally but savages stuff their victims like anything. And of course if we were a different tribe it wouldn’t matter. … With Herons for instance, scragginess would be all right … but the Eels’ victim ought to be fat. Of course I should have to ask the others, but I don’t believe Daisy would mind. The savages would come charging down on the explorers’ camp, pick the plumpest. …”
“Oh no, you can’t have Bridget,” said Roger.
“If you did want one of us for a victim,” said Susan, “you’d better take me or John.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Roger.
“Anybody but Bridget,” said Titty. “All right, Bridget. Don’t go and cry. Nobody’s going to make you a human sacrifice.”
“I think you’re beasts,” said Bridget. “You always make out I’m too young for everything. And now Daddy and Mummy have let me come. They think I’m old enough. And you won’t let me be a human sacrifice when somebody wants me. …”
“Do you really want to?” asked Susan.
“Oh do let her,” said Titty. “She’ll be all right.”
“Why shouldn’t she if she wants to?” said Roger.
“All right, Bridget,” said John. “If you’re jolly good, and always do what the mate tells you. …”
“And never forget to say ‘Aye, aye, sir’,” put in Roger.
Bridget cheered up and looked hopefully at the Mastodon.
“I think it’ll be all right,” he said. “But I’ll have to ask the others first.”
“Chops in the same plates,” said Susan. “We always do if we can to save washing up,” she added, remembering that the Mastodon was a visitor and not one of the crew.
By the time bananas had followed the chops the explorers and the savage knew a good deal about each other. He had heard something, not much, about their North Sea adventure. He was very pleased. “That makes it much better,” he said. “They can’t object when they know you’ve come from Holland quite lately. Coming across the sea makes you properly explorers.” He was thinking all the time of the other savages. “You see,” he said. “We’ve all promised to keep it secret. They’re awfully keen not to have crowds of people coming in and spoiling everything.”
“That’s just what we felt when we thought strangers had been camping on Wild Cat,” said Titty.
“Wild Cat?” said the Mastodon, and they told him of the lake in the north, and the camp on that rocky, wooded little island, and the alliance with the Amazon Pirates.
“Do you do signalling too?” asked Roger.
“Rockets,” said the Mastodon.
“Morse?” said Roger. “And semaphore, with flags?”
“Savages don’t.”
“We do,” said Roger.
“It’s all right for explorers,” said the Mastodon. “Not for savages. We’ve got our own way.”
“Awfully useful for secret messages,” said Titty. She dived into her tent, and brought out Nancy’s message, with the skull and crossbones in one corner, and the row of dancing figures. She showed it to the boy, keeping her finger over the letters that John had written under each of the dancing figures.
“Looks like a corroboree,” said the boy.
“It’s a message,” said Titty. She too
k her finger away, and showed the letters. “It says ‘Three million cheers’.”
“What does it mean?” said the boy.
“Well,” said Titty. “We don’t know. Something they’ve done, probably. Nancy couldn’t have known what was going to happen here.”
“She couldn’t have guessed we were going to have a Mastodon to dinner,” said Roger. “We didn’t know it ourselves.”
John showed the boy Daddy’s rough pencilled map of the islands and the Secret Water.
The Mastodon looked at it with care.
“But it’s wrong,” he said pointing with a finger. “There’s a way through there at high water. That’s an island, not just a cape. And you can get miles inland if you go on past the mouth of this creek. And there are two islands there, not one. … And …”
“That’s just it,” said John. “We’re going to get it all properly mapped before they come back to take us away.”
“It’ll take a long time,” said the Mastodon. “With only one boat.”
John showed him the work done that morning, the rough map of the island they were on, with bearings laid down from point to point all round the sea wall.
The Mastodon considered. “Jolly good,” he said. “But what about the channel between the island and the mainland?”
“We were going to sail round,” said John. “You couldn’t see it properly from the dyke.”
“You’d have a job to find it anyway,” said the Mastodon. “And you ought to put in two channels not one. Three really. Look here. Let me help. Tide’s up now. Let’s go. We ought just to be able to get round and back over the Wade before the tide drops again.”
“What’s the Wade?” asked Roger.
“Road to the mainland,” said the Mastodon. “Under water when the tide’s up.”
“How long will it take?” said Susan.
“Ought to do it in an hour,” said the Mastodon. “If we go north about. That’ll mean we’re going against the tide to the point, and we ought to have it with us nearly to the Wade and then we’ll have the ebb this side of the watershed to bring us home.” He pointed on the map to the place where they had seen the road over the mud, and explained that the tide came up from both sides to meet there, and poured back both ways when the ebb began.
Titty and Roger were already on their feet.
“What about Sinbad?” said Bridget, and a moment later, “Where is Sinbad?”
“’Sh,” said Titty at the door of her tent. “He’s gone to sleep.”
Sinbad, his stomach round and full after his dinner, had gone into Titty’s tent and curled himself on her sleeping bag. His round fat stomach rose and fell. Titty crawled in and without waking him, lifted the blankets and pulled them together to make a sheltering wall about the sleeping kitten.
“He’ll be all right for an hour or two,” said Susan.
“Tired, probably,” said Titty. “He’s done enough exploring for one day.”
They crossed the saltings and went down to the boats. Already much of the old piling that marked the landing place was under water. But bubbles and foam, slipping slowly along the edge of the mud, showed that the water was still rising.
THE MAP: WITH SWALLOW ISLAND
“We’ll do it all right,” said the Mastodon. “Who’s coming in my boat?”
“I will,” said Roger.
John and Susan looked at each other.
“It’s the first time we’ve sailed this boat by ourselves,” said Susan. “Bridget and I’ll go with John, if you’ll take Titty and Roger.”
“Look here, Titty,” said John. “You’d better take another copy of the map, to stick things down on, and we’ll compare afterwards.”
“You can give me a tow when we’re going with the wind,” said the Mastodon. “And I’ll tow you through the narrow places when the wind’s the other way.”
*
They were off. The Mastodon was away first, with Roger in the bows and Titty sitting in the stern. His was a small, tarred rowing boat. His splatchers, clear of mud which he had washed off before putting them in the boat, lay at Roger’s feet. Under the middle thwart, where he sat rowing, was a shallow wooden box, with another shallow box fitted in the middle of it. A coil of line lay round the outside of the inner box, and from this coil dozens of short lengths of line with hooks on them lay in notches in the sides of the inner box, so that all the hooks were in the middle, not touching each other and safe from getting tangled up with the main coil.
“What’s that?” asked Titty.
“Eel line,” said the Mastodon.
“Do you fish with minnows?” asked Titty, remembering fishing for perch on the lake.
“No,” said the Mastodon. “Lugworms. If you lift that bit of sacking, you’ll see them. Just behind your feet.”
Titty stooped down. Under the seat in the stern was another shallow box, and her heel was just touching a piece of wet coarse canvas, that lay in the box like a blanket in a bed. She lifted a corner of it. Underneath it, on another layer of wet canvas, lay a squirming mass of the most horrible looking worms she had ever seen. Each worm seemed to be in two parts, one thin, tapering and shining, the other bloated and hairy.
Titty held the canvas for a moment, staring at them, and then, hurriedly closed it down again.
“Do eels like them?” she said.
“Don’t they just? Flatfish, too, and whiting when they come up. It’s harder work getting worms than catching fish when you’ve got them. I was digging two hours this morning to get that lot.”
“Oh … I see.” Titty saw once more those mastodon tracks across the mud and the little heaps that had looked as if someone was making mud castles.
“We’ve got fishing things,” said Roger.
“There’s a good place at the mouth of the creek,” said the Mastodon. “Specially at low tide.”
Meanwhile John was getting up the Wizard’s sail, not too easily. They could see from the Mastodon’s boat that things were not going quite right. Susan was lifting the boom clear and holding it up while John was pulling at something. They had made the ship’s baby sit in the bottom of the boat.
“He’s never set it before,” said Titty, thinking that the Mastodon might be getting a poor idea of the explorer’s seamanship. “Daddy set it for us yesterday. He’s got it now.” The sail was up, John was tidying ropes at the foot of the mast, Susan was steering, the Wizard was moving through the water and the head of the ship’s baby showed above the gunwale. “That’s all right.”
The Mastodon laid to his oars, and they were soon out of the creek, and rowing along close to the northern shore of the island.
“Less tide close in,” he said.
A narrow opening showed in the saltings. Titty with a pencil marked it on her map.
“Only a drain,” said the Mastodon. “But you can’t tell unless you go in and have a look. Even at high water you can’t get more than a few yards up there. But the other place I told you about, on the other side of the island, doesn’t look any bigger, and we’ve gone right through with the whole fleet, the Eels, I mean, and come out in the main channel on the other side.”
“Do let’s do it,” said Titty.
“John’s gone aground,” said Roger.
The Wizard, following close behind them, was also dodging the tide, but John had forgotten that with her centreboard down she needed more water than the Mastodon’s rowing boat. They saw him hauling the centreboard up a little way, and sheering out into the channel.
“Good enough wind,” said the Mastodon. “She’ll beat the tide easily.”
“I say,” said Roger. “Are we going right out to sea? It’s out of bounds.”
It did look like it. At the mouth of the Secret Water there was nothing to be seen but rippled blue water. The sands were covered, and far away on the horizon, they could see the tall brown sails of barges, and the smoke of a steamship.
“Only round the corner,” said the Mastodon between strokes of his oars.
/> “Can’t we pull for a bit?” said Titty.
“I’ll stick to it till we get round into the other channel. Then we’ll have the tide with us. Want to save every minute here.”
Titty marked down the opening of another tiny creek or ditch running up into the saltings.
They came at last to the end of the island and cut across inside the crossroads buoy. Ahead of them was the island of shingle and bright yellow sand and the two or three yachts at anchor they had seen the day before. They were turning into the channel to the town.
“There are the dhows we saw yesterday,” said Titty.
The Mastodon looked over his shoulder. “Traders,” he said. “Probably slavers. But they haven’t caught any of us yet. Lapwing’s not there. She usually anchors just in there and they make a camp close by. The sand dunes give them good shelter. The real reason they camp there,” he added, “is because there’s no chance of setting anything on fire. Good bathing too. It’s the only sandy bit of beach for miles.”
“We never set things on fire,” said Roger. “We nearly got burnt once,” he went on, but caught Titty’s eye and stopped. Oh well, perhaps she was right. The Mastodon might think it was showing off.
The Wizard turned the corner and came after them, rapidly catching them up.
“Can you throw them our painter?” asked the Mastodon.
Roger coiled the painter and threw it. Susan grabbed it, the panting Mastodon rested on his oars, and the Wizard took on the extra load.
“Did you see those two creeks?” called John.
“I marked them,” called Titty. “But they don’t go anywhere.”
“They couldn’t go far anyway,” said John. “Because of the seawall. There isn’t a gap in it. I say, is that the place you call Flint Island?”
“Yes,” said the Mastodon.
“Why Flint?” asked Roger.
“Because if you land and go along the shore when the tide’s out you’ve got a good chance of finding flint arrowheads and things. The missionaries collect them.”