“Here, let me come, Mr Rodd,” cried Joe Cross, as he scrambled forward. “Here, catch hold, sir, and help me drag my jersey over my head. The brute’s stove us in, and if I don’t look sharp— Pull, sir, pull—right over my head! That’s got it,” he cried, and he set to work thrusting the woollen knitted shirt bit by bit along between the edges of two of the planks, through which the water was rapidly gurgling in. “There,” he said; “that’ll keep some on it out; but don’t all on you stand looking at me as if I was playing a conjuring trick. Get a couple of those poles over the sides. Nay, nay, it’s no use to try to punt. Dessay the water’s fathoms deep. Just keep her head straight, and let the tide carry us on. Look out, my lads! There’s another of them up yonder. See, Mr Rodd, sir—them two nubbles? Them’s his eyes. He just keeps his beautiful muddy carcase all hid under water and squints along the top with them pretty peepers of hisn to look out for his breakfast. Keep back, sir; I believe he’s coming on at us, big as the boat is. Oh, this is a pretty place, upon my word! He means me, because he can see my white skin.”
Instead of answering, Rodd picked up the bamboo pole, which had been jerked from his hands when they encountered the other reptile.
Three of the men followed his example of holding them ready to strike at what they could see of the crocodile, and as they were carried closer by the tide and Rodd could just make out below the muddy surface that the water was being stirred by the undulation of the tail of the monster, which was apparently fourteen or fifteen feet long, three poles were sharply thrust together, two of them coming in contact with the creature’s head just behind its eyes.
The blows were heavy, having behind them the weight and impetus of the loaded boat, and once more there was a tremendous swirl in the water, as the crocodile raised its head right out, turned completely over, displaying its pallid buff under portion, and then curved itself over, and in the act of diving down threw up its tail and struck the surface of the water with a blow that deluged the occupants of the cutter with spray.
“Well,” cried Joe, as the boat glided on, “I don’t know what you chaps think of it, but I am getting warm again, and I call this ’ere sport. But I say, Mr Rodd, I am beginning to wish you was aboard the Maid of Salcombe, and you’d took me with you.”
“Same ’ere, sir,” cried the men, in chorus.
“See any more, Mr Rodd?”
“No, not yet, Joe.”
“Well, there’s no hurry, sir. Let’s get our breath. But do you call this ’ere fishing or shooting?”
“There’s another,” cried Rodd excitedly; “but it’s going the other way.”