Swallows in the Dark
With Mate Susan at the oars, Roger on the lookout in the bows, and Captain John at the tiller, the Swallow moved up the Amazon River in the rapidly gathering dusk. There were walls of reeds on each side, then a bit of meadowland where they could see the shapes of trees against the darkening sky, then reeds again, shutting them in as if they were in a lane between high walls. Suddenly the river broadened into a wide, open pool, with tall reeds all round it, except where the river entered and left it.
“This must be what they called the lagoon,” said Captain John. “It’s the very place for them to hide their ship in. I wish it wasn’t so dark.”
He put the tiller hard over to starboard, so that the Swallow turned sharply to port.
“It’s awful rowing if you steer with such a jerk,” said Susan.
“Sorry,” said John. “I want to keep close to the edge all round this place. I don’t want to miss her.”
“Something’s pulling at my oar,” said Susan, “I can’t lift it.”
The boat stopped moving.
John peered over the side.
“Water lilies,” he said. “It’s getting most awfully dark.”
“They hang on to my oars like octopuses,” said Susan.
“Perhaps they are octopuses,” said Roger. “Titty read to me about how they put their arms out long, and grab people even out of a boat.”