"We all hate them, Sahib, except some of the foolish people who would think it a sin to hurt a crocodile. Do not be rash."
"Oh no, I shan't be rash," said Harry; "but you should have been with us yesterday; it was rare fun with the little grey-whiskered monkey. It was frightened nearly to death, what with the noise of the gun and the fall plump into the water, and the ducking, and then being so nearly snapped up by the crocodile."
"It would be frightened, too, on finding it was a prisoner, Sahib."
"He looked just like a withered-up old man, not much bigger than a baby."
"Yes, Sahib; they are strange little beasts," said Sree, who was still busy with the skins, giving delicate touches here and there to the plumage, with a small needle made of ivory. "I never kill one if I can help it, because they are so much like very wild old men."
"That is a lovely skin, Sree," said Harry, bending over the blue and grey thrush.
"Yes, and these are hard to find, Sahib."
"Father will be delighted with those, I'm sure," said Harry. Then turning off to the old hunter's last remarks, "So you don't like shooting monkeys?"
"No, Sahib, I never do."
"It does seem a shame, for they're such merry, happy-looking little chaps, swinging and playing about in the trees. How they enjoy the fruit, too! They seem to have quite a jolly life."