“Why, it’s a ’gator,” the latter said as he reached the spot where there was an extensive pool, quite undisturbed, for the screen of bushes had hidden it from the passers-by.
“A crocodile!” said Mark as he gazed excitedly into the clear water at the plainly defined shape of the little saurian, for it was not above four feet long.
“Wait a minute,” whispered Billy; “I’ll give him such a wonner in the skull,” and picking up a heavy piece of stone from the many lying in the half-dry river-bed he pitched it with fairly good aim just above the basking reptile.
There was a dull plunge; the water seemed to be all alive for a few minutes, swirling and eddying, and sending rings to the edge, and then it began to subside, but it was discoloured now, and evident that the one crocodile they had seen was not without companions.
“Now, it’s my ’pinion,” said Billy, “that if you’d come fishing instead o’ shooting, and rigged up rods and lines and tried for these here things in these ponds, you’d have had some sport.”
“But what would you have baited with?” said Mark, laughing.
“I d’know,” said Billy Widgeon. “Yes, I do,” he continued, “dog. They say as ’gators and crockydiles is rare and fond o’ dog.”
At that moment, by an odd coincidence, there was a piteous howling heard, followed directly after by a shot and then by another.
“Major’s shot your dog, Mr Mark,” said the boatswain, with a comical look at the captain’s son, as they hurried on.
“Bruff wouldn’t have howled before he was hurt,” said Mark excitedly. “They’ve shot some wild beast. Why didn’t we keep up with them?”