“What was dat, Mass’ George?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some kind of great cat, I suppose.”
“Pomp tink he know. It great big monkey like in him country. Great big as fader, and big long arm, an um shout ooooor! Like dat.”
He uttered as deep-toned a roar as he could, and made a snatch at me directly and held on, for from out of the forest came an answering roar that sounded terrific to us, as we stood there shivering with cold and fear.
“Mass’ George! Mass’ George!” whispered Pomp, with his lips close to my ear, “tell um I berry sorry. I no do um no more.”
“Hush!” I said, and I stood ready with the gun presented, fully expecting to see a dark shadowy form crawling over the light-coloured sand, and trying to get within range for a spring.
But all was still once more, and we waited in expectancy for some minutes before there was a great floundering splash in the water to our right; and then away to the left where the river ran black and mysterious in the night—where all was bright and beautiful by day—there came evidently from three different parts as many bellows, such as must have been given by alligators of great size.
“Come ’long, Mass’ George,” whispered Pomp.
“No,” I said, “we must wait till day.”
“Dey come and hab us bofe, Mass’ George, we ’top here. Come ’long.”