“Don’t Say He’s Dead.”
It was comparatively an aimless expedition the boys were making. Certainly they were to note down any good sites for stations; but otherwise they roamed about almost wherever Shanter led them. Now it would be down some lovely creek, overhung by wide-spreading ferns, in search of fish; now to hunt out and slay dangerous serpents, or capture the carpet-snake, which the black looked upon as a delicacy. Twice over they came across the lyre-tailed pheasant; but the birds escaped uninjured, so that they did not secure the wonderful tail-feathers for a trophy.
The last time Tim had quite an easy shot with both barrels, and there was a roar of laughter when the bird flew away amongst the dense scrub.
“Well, you are a shot!” cried Norman.
“Shanter plenty mumkull that fellow with boomerang,” said the black, scornfully.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Tim, reloading coolly. “The feathers would only have been a bother to carry home.”
“Sour grapes,” said Rifle, laughing.
“Oh, all right,” replied Tim; “perhaps you’ll miss next. Why—”
Tim stopped short, with the little shovel of his shot-belt in his hand, as he felt the long leathern eel-shaped case carefully.
“What’s the matter?” said Norman.