“But he does not come.”
“Well then, let’s give it up now and go. He is too artful. I daresay he sees us, and will not come till we are gone. We’ll go away and come back this evening. That’s the way the Malays catch the wretches. They don’t stop to watch, only let the rope be tied to a tree, and then come back, and they often find one on.”
“How do they kill it, then?”
“Same as we’re going to kill this one when he is hooked; but, oh murder, I’m getting so precious hungry; let’s give up now. I’ll tell them we’re not going to stay.”
He crawled to the men, whispered softly to them for a few minutes, and then came back, pausing to rouse up Tim, who looked very stupid.
“Ready?” said Ned, who was still holding the rope attached to the hen. “No. I don’t think I should like to give up. He may come yet.”
“I don’t know,” said Frank. “The brute isn’t hungry perhaps. I am, and I daresay there’s a white chicken waiting at home nicely curried, and with plenty of cocoa-nut cream in it, and the whitest of rice round, ready for me. I’m hungry, and can bite; so can you. Let’s be off and—eh? What?”
“Hist!” whispered Ned; “the water is moving. Look! look!”
They could only see a little of the water near the bank, where the lotus-leaves were, but they were evidently being moved by something passing through them, and the pale blue blossoms were nodding.
Then almost directly there was a splash, a hideous head appeared on the bank, the wretched hen uttered a cackling shriek and leaped up to the full extent of the tether, a loud snapping noise was heard. They had just a rapid view of a huge scaly, dripping body in the act of turning, a great undulating tail waved in the air—there was a loud splash; and, thrilling with excitement, Ned saw the slack coils of rope running out, and that the bait was gone.