The distance was short, but it seemed to them very long, and with eyes roving from bush to bush, they went on till they were close to the first patch of trees, the rest looking more scattered as they drew nearer, when all at once there was a hideous cry, which paralysed them for the moment, and Tim stood with his gun half raised to his shoulder, searching among the trees for the savage who had uttered the yell.
Another followed, with this time a beating of wings, and an ugly-looking black cockatoo flew off, while Rifle burst into a roar of laughter.
“Why didn’t you shoot the savage?” he cried. “Here, let’s go right through the bushes and back. Perhaps we shall see some more.”
Tim drew a deep breath full of relief, and walked forward without a word, passing through the patch and back to where the tea-jug had been left.
Here he drank heartily, and wiped his brow, while Rifle filled the mug a second time.
“You may laugh,” he said, “but it was a horrible sensation to feel that there were enemies.”
“Poll parrots,” interrupted Rifle.
“Enemies watching you,” said Tim with a sigh. “I say, Rifle, don’t you feel nervous coming right out here where there isn’t a soul?”
“I don’t know—perhaps. It does seem lonely. But not half so lonely as standing on deck looking over the bulwarks on a dark night far out at sea.”
“Yes; that did seem terrible,” said Tim.