Murray’s face was scarlet, and he stood looking at his visitor without a word, for in his heart of hearts he owned that he was right, and that out there, in those wild jungles, he, Johnstone Murray, naturalist, who had never thought of such a thing before, had found his fate.
“Yes,” said Mr Braine again, thoughtfully, “a serious complication, which might have risked all our lives.”
Chapter Eleven.
The White Hen.
Meanwhile Ned and Frank had gone off eagerly to the attack upon the lurking water-dragon, terrible, in its way, as that which Saint George slew, and about half-way to the stockade they caught sight of Tim Driscol, seated under a tree, puffing away at a homemade pipe, composed of a short piece of bamboo with a reed stuck in the side. He had a neatly-made little basket by his knee, and as he saw the lads coming, he tapped the ashes out of his pipe, thrust it in his pocket, and rose to pick up his basket, in which there was evidently something alive.
“Bedad and I began to think ye didn’t mane to come,” he said, with his eyes twinkling.
“Oh, I should have come, Tim, if he hadn’t,” replied Frank.
“Av coorse ye would.—No offinse, Mr Murray, but why don’t ye have a dress like the young master here? Don’t he look fine? I hear you took him for a young rajah.”