“He’s there still,” he said; “I heard him whisper like a sick goose as I popped that stuff down.”
“We’d better look out, then, on the other side,” cried Fitz, “or he’ll make a bolt. Shall I get my gun?”
“No, no,” said Poole; “we must have no firing now.”
Fitz moved, joist in hand, towards the other side of the clump.
“Nay, you needn’t do that, sir,” cried the carpenter. “That’s what we want him to do.”
“Oh, I see; you don’t want there to be any waste,” said Poole.
“Ugh!” shuddered Fitz, and the carpenter grinned as he hurriedly snapped off as many dead bamboos as he could secure from a waving, feathery group, bore the bundle the next minute to the edge of the clump of shrubs, laid them on the heap of banana-leaves, and then rapidly applied a burning match to the dry growth, which still retained a sufficiency of inflammable oil to begin to flare at once, making the bamboos crackle and then explode with a series of little reports like those of a revolver.
“That’s right,” said the carpenter; “if we had only got a few dozen cocoanut-shells to help it on, we should have a bonfire as’d beat a Guy Foxer all to fits.”
But there were no cocoanuts to be had without paying a visit to the seashore, so the fire was mended with the bushes that were cut down from here and there, blazing up so furiously that in a few minutes the clump was consumed, and the snake with it, for it was not seen again.
“Now then,” said the skipper, “scatter those embers about, and put an end to that smoke, or it will attract the enemy and show them where we are.”