“It’s dishgusting, sor,” said Tim. “Here, I must light a pipe to take the taste out of my mouth. But it’s a puzzle—a reg’lar conundhrum, that’s what it is.”
“What’s a conundrum?”
“Why sor, whatever crocodiles could have been made for. But I say, Masther Frank, he thought it was a chicken. He nivver knew it was a tough ould hin.”
Chapter Twelve.
Through the Jungle.
A few days later, in which interval several little boating journeys had been made, the results of which could be seen in Murray’s house, which was rapidly beginning to show traces of its being intended for a museum, the morning broke fine and comparatively cool; and just at sunrise Mr Braine came to where Ned and his uncle was seated at their early breakfast, to announce that the preparations settled upon the previous evening had been made.
Murray had finished his meal, but Ned was still engaged in getting ready for a tolerably long fast to mid-day, when a good meal would be prepared.
He was still lingering reluctantly over his breakfast when Frank appeared, and as soon as the two boys were together, Murray drew Mr Braine out into the veranda. “Well,” he said; “any fresh news?”