Anthony grimaced to show that he did.
"El-lagarto," repeated the Indian carefully. He liked the Spanish word. "I can show you one."
"I'm not sure I want to see one—but—yes—of course I do," and Anthony followed his guide.
On a little rise of muddy ground was a jumble of driftwood and grass. The Indian mounted it with Anthony at his heels. He peered over a log and, bobbing his head with assurance, pointed his finger and made way for his companion to see. Anthony stuck his head forward and almost into the open maw of the most horrid creature on earth—two immense jaws wide open—double rows of long white fangs—
He forgot that he was now grown up. He gave the shriek after shriek of a scared little boy and, flouncing backward, went tumbling down the knoll in a madness of haste.
The conference was stopped. All crowded round him in consternation. He was too shaken to be ashamed of himself. "What's the matter?" was the demand.
"El-lagarto," explained the Indian, charmed with this second sensation he had produced.
"Did you kill it, Tony?" asked the Sieur La Salle.
"No," confessed Anthony. "The instant I looked at it, it opened the biggest mouth ever seen and almost bit my head off."