In fact he swore he had ferried twice our number over on darker nights more than twenty or thirty times.

He also said that he had taken the cattle over by the ford early that morning, and then had crossed over in the boat with two Greeks and a bwana Goa.
He showed us the brass wire and beads they gave him in proof of that statement, and we began to put some faith in his tale.
So we all piled into his crazy boat with our belongings, and he promptly lost the way amid the twelve-foot grass-papyrus mostly--that divided the river into narrow streams and afforded protection to the most savagely hungry mosquitoes in the world.

Our faces and hands were wet with blood in less than two minutes.
Presently, instead of finding bottom for his pole, he pushed us into deep water.

The grass disappeared, and a ripple on the water lipping dangerously within three inches of our uneven gunwale proved that we were more or less in the main stream.

We had enjoyed that sensation for about a minute, and were headed toward where we supposed the opposite bank must be, when a hippo in a hurry to breathe blew just beside us--saw, smelt, or heard us (it was all one to him)--and dived again.
I suppose in order to get his head down fast enough he shoved his rump up, and his great fat back made a wave that ended that voyage abruptly.
Our three inches of broadside vanished.