“Right, sir. Of course! It does look very pretty about here, but one can’t help feeling that one of them pretty, smiling creatures may be lying in there, just where the leaves touch the water, and watching us all the time. Here, I should like to murder some of them. What do you say to fixing bayonets on the end of them bamboo poles, and then pitching leaves or bits of dead wood into the water as a bait for them reptiles, and having a bit of sport to pass away the time?”
“I don’t feel much disposed for sport, Pete.”
“Course you don’t, sir; but, you see, we’ve got hours and hours to sit here till it’s dark. One feels as if one must do something. Here, I know! Capital! I’ve got no tackle but green leaves. I’ll clean that gun.”
“No cleaning-rod, Pete.”
“Must be, sir.”
“Of course; but it will be hanging up somewhere in the Doctor’s bungalow.”
“Might cut a young, thin bamboo, sir,” said Pete, looking sharply round, and feeling in his pocket for his knife.
“I can see no bamboos,” said Archie—“nothing but crooked boughs.”
“Well, anyhow, sir, we might rub the specks of rust off with leaves. Would you like to have first turn?”
“No, Pete. I feel as if I could do nothing but sit still and rest and think.”