“Dat big bunyip beat um gin,” whispered Jimmy, with a curious awe-stricken look in his countenance.
“’Taint,” said Jack Penny slowly. “I don’t believe in bunyips. If it was a bunyip beating his gin, she’d holloa out like hooray, and squeak the leaves off the trees.”
“’Fraid squeak,” said Jimmy eagerly, as he caught Jack’s meaning.
“Well, perhaps Jimmy’s right,” said the doctor slowly; “and as I’ve never seen a bunyip the present is a favourable opportunity, and we can interfere to stop him from too severely castigating his wife. Come, Jimmy, lead on.”
Jimmy’s jaw dropped, but his hand stole to his waistband, from which he drew his waddy, talking slowly the while, till, seeing the doctor make a movement towards him, he turned round and darted into the bush.
“He won’t stop till he gets back to the village,” drawled Jack.
“He won’t go farther than the first big tree,” I said, laughing. “He’s watching us now, I’ll be bound.”
“Then you and I will have to meet the bunyip, Joe,” said the doctor. “Are you coming, Penny?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” said Jack quietly. “I should like to see a bunyip. Come along.”
Jack went on—not first, for Gyp started before him and, guided by the noise, we pushed on amongst the dense growth, finding the earth grow moister beneath our feet; and then all at once it seemed as if the big trees had come to an end and we were in a lighter place.