Then, having found the muddy bank at last (and more trillions of mosquitoes) we had to drag the overturned boat out high and dry to rescue our belongings.
And that was ticklish work, because most of the crocodiles, and practically all the largest ones, spend the night alongshore.
Matches were wet.

We had no means of making a flare to frighten the monsters away.

We simply had to "chance it" as cheerfully and swiftly as we could, and at the end of a half-hour's slimy toil we carried our muddied loads to the nearest high ground and settled down there for the night.
It would be mad exaggeration to say we camped.

Wet to the skin--dirty to the verge of feeling suicidal--bitten by insects until the blood ran down from us--lost (for we had no notion where the end of the ford might be)--at the mercy of any prowling beasts that might discover us (for our rifle locks were fouled with mud)--we sat with chattering teeth and waited for the morning.
When the sun rose we found a village less than four hundred yards away and sent the boys down to it to unpack the loads and spread everything in the sun to dry, while we went down to the river again and washed our rifles.

Then we dried and oiled them, and without a word of bargain or explanation, invaded the cleanest looking hut, lay down on the stamped clay floor, and slept.