He came out in his pyjamas, sun helmet on his head, pliant mosquito boots reaching to his knees.
"A crocodile, sir," said Bones.
"Why waste good ammunition on crocodiles?" asked Hamilton; "was it something exceptional?"
"A tremendous chap, sir," said the enthusiastic Bones, "some fifty feet long, and as green as——"
"As green!" repeated Hamilton quickly, "where are we?"
He looked with a swift glance along the shore for landmarks.
"I hope to goodness you have not shot old M'zooba," he said.
"I don't know your friend by name," said Bones, "but why shouldn't I shoot him?"
"Because, you silly ass," said Hamilton, "she is a sort of sacred crocodile."