But he did not take his revenge, though he started two more at different times from among the sun-baked stones, and Bostock bantered him about it.
“Why don’t you shoot, sir?” he said, in a low voice so that the doctor, who was a little behind, examining plants, did not hear.
“Who’s to shoot at a thin whip-lash of a tail?” said Carey, angrily. “They’re here one moment and gone the next. They dart out of sight like a flash.”
As they went higher the doctor pointed out various tokens of some ancient eruption, it being plain that there must have been a time when the bed of the river formed that of a flow of volcanic mud, mingled with blocks of lava and scoria. Then the lake must in the course of ages have formed, and its overflowings have swept away all soft and loose débris.
“Yes, it’s all very interesting,” said Carey, “but it’s precious hot,” and he gave himself a sort of writhe to make his clothes rub over his skin. But the attempt was in vain, for his shirt stuck, and a peculiarly irritable look came over his countenance.
“Do the weals sting?” asked the doctor.
“Horribly. That lizard’s tail must be all bone. Oh, it does hurt still.”
“It will soon go off. Think of it from a natural history point of view, my boy, and how singular it is that the creature should be endowed with such a wonderful power of defence. It regularly flogged and lashed at you.”
“Yes; cracked its tail like a whip.”
“No, no; the sound you heard was caused by the blows. It seems as if the saurian tribe make special use of their tails for offence and defence.”