“I dunno, Master Nat. You see, it was all furren, and I couldn’t understand it; but one of ’em was horrid howdacious: he ran along a bough till he was right over my head, and then he took hold with his tail and swung himself to and fro and chattered, and said he’d drop on my head if I dared to move.”
“Are you sure he said that, Pete?” said my uncle drily.
“Well, sir, I can’t be quite sure, because I couldn’t understand him; but it seemed something like that.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid there was a good deal of imagination in it, Pete, and that you have bad eyes.”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Pete; “my eyes are all right.”
“They cannot be,” said my uncle; “they must magnify terribly. Now then, take off your wet clothes, wring them out, and hang them up in the sun, while we look after this huge serpent and the gigantic monkeys. Draw the boat along by the boughs, Cross, till we can look through that opening. Be ready with your gun, Nat. Put in a couple of those swanshot cartridges. You shall do the shooting.”
I hurriedly changed the charges in my double gun and sat in my place, looking up eagerly, trying to pierce the green twilight and tangle of crossing boughs, while Pete slowly slipped off his dripping shirt and trousers, watching me the while.
“See anything yet?” said my uncle, as he helped Cross to push the boat along, pulling the boughs aside, which forced him to lower the sail and unship the mast.
“No, uncle; the boughs are too thick—yes—yes, I can see a monkey hanging by his tail.”
“A six-footer? Bring him down, then. We must have his skin.”