Reynolds nodded, "Yes, yes," he said, "it's Perfessor Thunder's Missin' Link from the show up back o' the school. I was in there—I seen him. He's a terrible-lookin' big monkey, next to a man. The show's closed, an' the Perfessor's' bin huntin' all over th' place after some-thin'. That's what—it's his Missini' Link fer a quid."
Reynolds gave further explanations, there was more excited talk, and then
Watkins suggested an expedition to capture the monster.
"You can bet the showman 'll be glad to pay a bit t' have him back. He mus' be scared about losin' him, else he wouldn't have kep' it dark. It'll be a lark, an' it means drinks round at least."
So it came about that a party, armed with guns and club and carrying strong ropes, started out from the Bridge Inn, under the guidance of Dan Reynolds, to capture the Missing Link, supposed to be at large in the vicinity of McCarthy's paddock.
Nickie the Kid had awakened from his slumber under the bridge, had partaken further of the whisky, then divesting himself of his overcoat and replacing the mask and head-gear of Mahdi the man-monkey, had gone forth into the bush to proclaim his kingship to the trees, and awaken the echoes of the hills with Bacchic song. He was enjoying a song and dance near the spot where Reynolds came upon him, when the hunters discovered him. The sight filled them with proper awe and great discretion.
Mahdi looked a truly formidable brute, capering there in the shadow of the gums, and his cries, stifled and made animal-like by the mask, added to the qualms of the Party.
Nickie saw the hunters on the chock-and-log fence ready to retire precipitately should he advance with homicidal intentions, and a vague idea that he was performing professionally before an attentive audience took possession of his bleary mind. He capered fantastically, and made a foolish attempt to climb a tree. Then he jumped up and down like a monkey on a stick, throwing out his long arms, and growling ominously.
"By cripes, he's er dangerous beggar," said Scott. "He'd tear yer limb from limb. Better cripple him. I think."
Scott raised his gun and fired. Fortunately, Scott was nervous, and missed, but the miss was a narrow thing, and Nickie heard the ping of the bullet and the plunk as it buried it in the bark of the tree behind him.
Suddenly a spasm of comprehension came to Nickie, despite the whisky, and he made a leap the gum-butt, and hastily entrenched himself. He was being fired at, and it was neither pleasant nor healthy to be fired at, that much he realised. He peered, monkey-like, from behind the tree, and made an effort to grasp the situation. Scott was taking aim again.