Zack sputtered the water from his mouth. "Dat's all right, Cunnel; I kin swim out."
Two hundred pairs of eyes were watching Zack as he grabbed the donkey's halter and let the current drift them past the gunboat, whose wheels were still. Everybody yelled, everybody threw sticks into the water. But no Arab dared to venture. The donkey exhibited characteristic composure, marking time until he drifted below the wheels, then Zack personally conducted him towards the shore.
"Look!" Lyttleton exclaimed, and gripped the Colonel's arm. A black shape—a crocodile—rose from the water; the terrific jaws snapped, and Zack's helmet disappeared in a flurry. Lyttleton snatched his rifle and fired shot after shot—all around Zack, covering the swimmer's retreat by a picket line of bullets. Zack glanced up prayerfully, with white eyes, "Hol' on, white folks! Quit shootin', fer Gawd's sake." He swam like a grass-hopper, and never let go the donkey's halter until each had dragged out the other. Thereupon the Most Important Donkey stopped to nibble at a tuft of grass. Zack jerked him roughly. "Come 'long, fool! You ain't got sense 'nuff to git out o' nobody's way."
The excited McDonald ran downstairs, through the intervening barge, and dashed across the narrow plank to shore, congratulating Zack
