“No, Pomp,” I would say, “the first ’gator I shoot must be that one in the bathing-pool. Come along.”
On we went, with the river winding in and out through the forest, and there was always something fresh to see: humming-birds that were not so big as some of the butterflies and beetles that swarmed in the sunshiny parts; great lagoon-like pools where the running of the stream became invisible, and we could see far down in the deep water where fish were slowly gliding in and out among the roots of the trees, which in many places clothed the bottom with masses of fibre. Now Pomp’s eyes would be ready to start out of his head as we neared a corner, or starting off into the forest to avoid some wild or swampy patch, we crept out to the river’s bank again, to startle a little flock of ducks which had been preening themselves, and sent feathers like tiny boats floating down the stream.
“Plenty of time,” I would keep saying. “We don’t want them yet, and I’ll shoot them when we do.”
“But ’pose dey not dah to shoot when you want um, Mass’ George. I dreffle hungry now.”
“Ah,” I said at last, “our wallet is getting heavy. Let’s pick out a place, and have some lunch.”
Pomp pricked up his ears, as he generally did when he heard a new word, and this was one ready for him to adopt.
“Iss,” he said, eagerly, “I berry fond o’ lunch. I fought smell um yesday when missie cook um.”
“Cook what?” I said.
“Dat lunch, Mass’ George.”
I laughed, and pressed on to look for a good spot, and soon found one where a great tree, whose roots had been undermined by the river, had fallen diagonally with its branches half in the water, and offering us a good seat just nicely shaded from the burning sun, while we had only to lie out on its great trunk and reach down to be able to fill the tin can I had with the clear water.