“What is it then?” said the captain shortly.
“One of those great long-legged crane things that begin work about this time, fishing in the swamps for frogs.”
“You think the noise was made by a crane?”
“Sure of it, mister,” was the reply. “I’ve sat up before now at the edge of a swamp to shoot them for specimens, and there’s several kinds of that sort of bird make a row like that.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the captain gruffly. “You seem to know. Perhaps, then, you’ll tell us what made that noise?”
He held up his hand, and all listened to a peculiar whirring sound which began at a distance, came closer and closer till it seemed to pass from under the trees, swing round the ship, and slowly die away again.
“Ah, that!” said Briscoe quietly. “Sounds like someone letting off a firework with a bang at the end gone damp. No, I don’t know what that is. Yes, I do,” he added hastily. “That’s a big bird too.”
“Crane?” said the captain, with an incredulous snort.
“No, sir,” said the American: “different thing altogether. It’s a night bird that flies round catching beetles and moths—bird something like our ‘Whip-poor-Wills’ or ‘Chuck-Will’s-widows.’”
“Bah!” said the captain.