“Ha, ha! what a game! Why, she asked me to get her a few, and I set that one-eyed chap to knock some down with a sumpitan—you know, Ned, a blowpipe, and she has had six these last three days, and skinned them all beautifully. She gave me one to show me how well she could do it. Here, where did I stick the thing?”
He began searching his pockets, and ended by dragging out a rough tuft of glistening metallic feathers, at which he looked down with a comical expression of countenance.
“A delightful specimen,” said Murray, grimly.
“Yes, now. But it was beautiful when she showed it to me. I oughtn’t to have put it in my pocket, I suppose. But, I say, Mr Murray, can’t you spare Ned?”
“What do you want him for, Frank?” said his father.
“To try for that big croc that hangs about the river half-way between here and the stockade. He has just taken another poor girl, father.”
“What!” cried Mr Braine, with a look of horror.
“I only just heard of it. She was reaching over to pick lotus-leaves close by, where you were so nearly caught, Ned.”
“Eh?” cried Murray, looking up sharply. “Oh yes, I remember, and you are thinking of trying to shoot this monster?”
“No; going to catch him,” said Frank.