Harry thrust his head out on the other side of the mat, to gaze up and down the river, to see overhead the stars growing pale and feeble, while the river bed was filled up by a soft, dark-grey flood which rose about ten or fifteen feet up the black wall of trees opposite to them. On the other side and overhead there was a warm glow which lit up the thin mist, giving it a roseate hue, while the cloud of smoke was gathering more and more and blotting out the faint stars half across the river, its under side ruddy too with the fire-reflected light.
"I never saw the river look like this before," cried Harry. "Looks jolly, doesn't it?"
"Beautiful and calm, and just as if the earth was waking up," replied
Phra.
"Birds, you mean," said Harry. "Parrots are whistling, and—here, I say, hark at that coo—ah—coo—ah. Hear that?"
"Yes. Argus pheasant," said Phra eagerly.
"Let's take the guns and go and see if we can't get a shot at it."
"What! try and get through the jungle now it's all dripping with dew?"
"Never thought of that," said Harry. "Would be sloppy, wouldn't it?"
"Sloppy! Why, we should be drenched before we'd gone ten yards."
"And I don't suppose we could go ten yards. Let's go and ask old Sree if he can call the birds over, so that we can get a shot at them."