* * * * *
There would be no play to-night, for Father Reginald Fitzroy knew his people needed rest after the fatigues of that campaign by the sea. The boys and girls who would have fain crowded into the field and broken up the peace of the encampment were warned that it might be dangerous to come near, as the wild chameleon was very restless this evening, and if he escaped there was no saying what might happen. One lad, however, ventured to inquire what sort of an animal a “chameeling” was.
“Something like the awful crocodile of the Nile,” replied Johnnie; “only, instead of seizing his prey with his jaws, he darts forth a terrible tongue, which is nearly as long as his body, and draws the victim in.”
“Swallers ’em alive, sir?”
“Yes, swallows him alive, and he is slowly tortured to death in his dark inside.”
At that moment the deep-mouthed bloodhound began to bay and roar, and all the crowd backed away from the gate in some confusion.
Only one brave English boy stopped.
“I say, gipsy!”
“Well?” replied Johnnie.
“I’d like to come inside and foight thee for a farthin’ stick o’ toffy.”