“I don’t know,” cried Rodd excitedly. “What do you say, Joe?”
“I don’t know, sir. I never learned crocodile at school, though there was one in my spelling-book, and I ’member I couldn’t understand why a four-legged chap like him,
as lived in the water, should make a nest and lay eggs like a bird. Here, Harry, let me handle that pole for a few minutes. I should like to have a turn. Thank you, lad,” he continued. “Yes, they’re rum beasts, Mr Rodd, sir, and I dare say they are very slippery; but I don’t suppose I shall miss the next one— Ah! Would yer!” he shouted as one of the reptiles rose suddenly, open-mouthed, close to the boat’s head.
As the man spoke he made a heavy thrust with his pole, his companions having no time to take aim, and the next moment the hideous jaws snapped to, there was a fresh swirl, the bamboo pole was jerked out of Joe’s hand, and he would have overbalanced himself and gone overboard had not those nearest to him seized him and snatched him back.
“Well, now,” he cried, “just look at that!” For about half of the bamboo remained visible and went sailing up the stream.
Just then there was the sharp report of a gun from behind, followed by another, while before there was time for re-loading there was the loud crack, crack of a double fowling-piece.
“Hurrah! That’s uncle!” cried Rodd. “They are firing at the crocodiles, and it will be with bullets.”
“And sarve them jolly well right, Mr Rodd, say I,” cried Joe, “for I call it taking a mean advantage of a man to sneak off like that with his pole. Why, look at him, sir. He’s having a regular lark with it—picking his teeth, or something. Look how he’s waggling the top of it about. What do you say to try and steer after him and get it back?”
“Ugh! No!” cried Rodd. “It would be madness.”