“Shure, an’ arn’t we close to the river, where it’s mortial damp?”
“To be sure we are; but it isn’t damp here, Dinny.”
“Shure, but it is!” cried Dinny. “There’s a hoarse roar for ye!”
The peculiar noise came again, and was repeated from a distance, and again in the other direction.
“That’s no lion, Dinny,” said Jack.
“Not a lion? Bedad, and I’d bet me head that it is, and a lion that’s hoarse wid a horrid bad cowld—jist the same as meself, and a sore throat in the bargain, after that wet night we had the other day.”
“No, that can’t be a lion,” said Jack again. “Hulloa! who’s there?”
The click-click of Jack’s gun was heard as a dark form was seen approaching. But the familiar voice of Mr Rogers made the boy lower his piece.
“I thought I’d come and have a look at you, my boy,” said Mr Rogers. “Do you hear the hippopotamus?”
“Shure, no, sor; but there’s a great big lion wid a terrible cowld, roaring away for his mate; and I’d thank ye kindly if ye’d shute him at once. There he goes, sor!”