“I can take you where you can catch them,” said Frank; “along by the edge of the jungle where the rice-fields are; only the worst of butterfly catching there is, that a tiger may fly out and butter you, as they do the men sometimes who are at work over the rice.”
“Not a pleasant way of butterfly hunting, I must say,” said Murray, who, gun in hand, was watching the edge of the jungle. “What’s the matter?”
For the men had suddenly ceased rowing, and the naga glided slowly on, diminishing in speed till it was stationary, and then, yielding to the influence of the stream, began to glide back.
Meanwhile an excited conversation was going on between the principal boatman and Frank Braine, the former pointing up into a huge tree whose boughs overhung the river, their tips almost touching the surface, and naturally both Murray and Ned gazed up too.
“What is it—a monkey or a bird?” said Ned, eagerly.
“Yes, I see it now,” said Frank. Then, telling the men in Malay to keep the boat stationary, he turned to Murray: “Here’s a shot for you, sir. I couldn’t see it at first. Their eyes are sharper than ours. Wait a minute till the boat’s right. That’s it. Stop now, both of you look right in through that opening among the leaves, and you’ll see it on a branch.”
“What, some handsome bird?”
“No; something that’s been up there after the birds or monkeys. Do you see? Look where I’m pointing.”
“I am looking there,” said Ned, eagerly; “but I can only see a great creeper all curled about and twisted in knots where it looks quite dark.”
“Well, that’s it,” said Frank, laughing; “that great creeper. See it, Mr Murray?”