“No,” I said in a low tone, which impressed the boy so that he sat speechless for some time; “no, but the panthers can, more easily than we do, Pomp.”
I don’t know what sort of a shot I should have made; probably I should have been too nervous to take good aim up there in the dark; but for what seemed a terrible length of time I sat there gun in hand, ready to fire at the first savage creature I could see, and a dozen times over I conjured up something stealthily approaching. But it was not until we had been up there about an hour that I felt quite certain of some great cat-like creature being beneath the tree.
It was not creeping forward, but crouched down as if watching us, ready at our first movement to change its waiting attitude into one of offence.
Pomp made no sign, but he was so still that I felt sure he could see it too, and I was afraid to call his attention to it, lest it should bring the creature on me so suddenly that it might disorder my aim. So I sat on with the piece directed at the object, my finger on the trigger, hesitating, then determined to fire, when all at once it seemed to me that the animal had grown plainer.
This, though I had not detected the movement, must mean that it was getting nearer and about to spring, so casting all hesitancy to the winds, I raised the gun to my shoulder, and then quite started, for Pomp said aloud—
“Mass’ George going shoot?”
“Yes,” I said, in a husky whisper. “Keep still; do you see it?”
“No. Where be um?”
“There, there,” I whispered; “down straight before us.”
“What, dat?”