218 
WANDERINGS IN 
THIRD 
JOURNEY 
a creole from Trinidad, and myself a white man 
from Yorkshire. In fact, a little tower of Babel 
group, in dress, no dress, address, and language. 
Daddy Quashi hung in the rear; I showed him 
a large Spanish knife, which I always carried in the 
waistband of my trousers : it spoke volumes to him, 
and he shrugged up his shoulders in absolute des¬ 
pair. The sun was just peeping over the high 
forests on the eastern hills, as if coming to look on, 
and bid us act with becoming fortitude. I placed 
all the people at the end of the rope, and ordered 
them to pull till the cayman appeared on the surface 
of the water ; and then, should he plunge, to slacken 
the rope and let him go again into the deep. 
I now took the mast of the canoe in my hand (the 
sail being tied round the end of the mast) and sunk 
down upon one knee, about four yards from the 
water’s edge, determining to thrust it down his 
throat, in case he gave me an opportunity. I cer¬ 
tainly felt somewhat uncomfortable in this situation, 
and I thought of Cerberus on the other side of the 
Styx ferry. The people pulled the cayman to the 
surface; he plunged furiously as soon as he arrived 
in these upper regions, and immediately went below 
again on their slackening the rope. I saw enough 
not to fall in love at first sight. I now told them 
we would run all risks, and have him on land im¬ 
mediately. They pulled again, and out he came, 
— u monstrum horrendum, informe.” This was an 
interesting moment. I kept my position firmly, 
with my eye fixed steadfast on him. 
By the time the cayman was within two yards of 
