“Hope it ar’n’t lions or tigers,” said Billy, as he panted on under the load of a bag which contained certain bottles of beer.
“No lions or tigers in an island like this,” said Small oracularly. “Oh, there they are.”
A turn in the river-bed had brought Mark and his companions in sight of the major and the two mates about a hundred and fifty yards away. Mr Morgan was kneeling down by a pool doing something to the dog, while the major and Gregory looked on.
“I was right,” said Small; “they have shot your dog, Mr Mark.”
At that moment Bruff caught sight of his master, and uttering a loud bark, he started off from where he stood and came limping on three legs towards Mark, holding his right fore-paw in the air and whimpering piteously.
“Why, Bruff, old chap, what is it?” cried Mark, as the dog came up holding out his leg as if for sympathy; “have they shot you? Why, no; he has been in a trap.”
“No,” said the boatswain, examining the dog’s leg, “he’s been fighting and something has bitten him. Wild pig, for a penny.”
“Here, Mark, my lad,” cried the major, “you nearly lost your dog.”
“What’s been the matter?” cried Mark.
“A crocodile got hold of him by this pool.”