“Who, uncle?”
“The fellow who wants to have our blood.”
“Shall I get the guns, uncle?” whispered Ned, in awe-stricken tones.
“Bah! Nonsense! Whoever shot at a mosquito?”
“Mosquito! Oh, I say, what a shame to scare me like that.”
The insect came, filled himself full, and flew off replete; but somehow sleep would not come to either Ned or his uncle, and they were lying hot and weary longing for the repose, when they both started up, for from somewhere in the forest beyond the cottages came a deep-toned sound which can only be rendered by the word pow!
“What’s that, uncle?”
“Hist! talk in a whisper. It may be some kind of ape on the prowl; but I’m afraid—”
“So am I, uncle, horribly.”
“Be quiet, sir, and let me finish what I have to say,” cried Murray angrily. “I was going to say I’m afraid it’s a tiger.”