At home, in the village, the women had come in and were at work as usual preparing supper. A little before sunset, far down the river, the voices of men singing came over the water, and as the song grew louder they could make out something about roast pig for supper.
“They must have killed something,” said Nkunda.
“The boys have had bad luck with their fishing,” said the Alo Man, whose keen ears had caught the little jeering note in the song.
In another minute the canoes would come in sight round the bend in the river, when—all at once—there was a great splash and a chorus of yells, and the song broke off in the middle of a line. When the canoes presently appeared, the men were no longer singing; they were paddling with all their might, and they looked rather scared and crestfallen.
Mpoko and Nkula, however, did not look crestfallen. They grinned as only small African boys can grin, as they hopped out of the canoe and scampered for the huts with their few but precious fish.
“Where is that roast pork we were going to have for supper?” asked the Alo Man, coming to meet the party.
“We were nearly home when a crocodile rose up almost under the canoe, snapped at the pig, tipped us over, and went off with the meat,” growled one of the men.
Thus, after all, there would not have been nearly so good a supper that night if the boys had not gone fishing.
Crocodile stories were naturally in order after supper, and the Alo Man, when his turn came, told the story of the Rabbit and the Crocodile.