Another hour in that hot silence, and no signs of a crocodile. The Malays were all watchful, their dark eyes fixed on the white bird, and their spears ready; but Tim Driscol had fallen asleep with his pipe in his mouth, and the sight of the Irishman with his eyes closed, and his breath coming regularly, had a drowsy effect upon Ned, who half lay there on his side watching the glaring river, with the water looking every here and there like damascened metal. Then all at once, as Tim Driscol’s breath came thickly, the hen was not there, the rope was running out fast, there was a sudden jerk, and Ned’s eyes opened with a start.
“Don’t go to sleep,” whispered Frank. “He may come at any time.”
“Don’t go to sleep!” Then he had been asleep and dreaming, for there was the hen scratching about on the bank, and the rope lying just as it was before.
“I had only just closed my eyes, had I?”
“About five minutes, and your head was wagging about like a big fruit on a stalk. You don’t want the croc to drag you into the river too.”
These last words effectually drove away the drowsy sensation brought on by the silence and heat there beneath the trees; and, after a glance round to see that the Malays were all as watchful as ever, Ned settled down again to think about the white hen; about his own narrow escape, and then about the horrible mishap that morning, and of the poor girl’s feelings as she felt herself seized by the great reptile.
“They ought to kill them all, Frank,” he whispered.
“Kill whom?”
“The crocodiles. It is horrible to let these creatures be about the place.”
“Very well; let’s kill ’em all, then. There’ll be plenty of sport. We’re beginning with this one.”