Animal life was not wanting in this paradise. Frequently did our seaman give vent to “Hallo!” “There they go!” “Look out for the little ’un wi’ the long tail!” and similar expressions, referring of course to his favourite monkeys, which ever and anon peered out upon the strangers with looks of intensity, for whatever their expression might be—sadness, grief, interrogation, wrath, surprise—it was always in the superlative degree. There were birds also, innumerable. One, styled the “king-hunter,” sang wild exultant airs, as if it found king-hunting to be an extremely exhilarating occupation, though what sort of kings it hunted we cannot tell. Perhaps it was the king of beasts, perhaps the kingfisher, a bright specimen of which was frequently seen to dart out from the banks, but we profess ignorance on this point. There were fish-hawks also, magnificent fellows, which sat in regal dignity on the tops of the mangrove trees, and the glossy ibis, with others of the feathered tribe too numerous to mention.
Large animals also were there in abundance, though not so frequently seen as those which have been already mentioned. Disco occasionally made known the fact that such, or something unusual, had transpired, by the sudden and violent exclamation of “What’s that?” in a voice so loud that “that,” whatever it might be, sometimes bolted or took to flight before any one else caught sight of it.
“Hallo!” he exclaimed, on one such occasion, as the canoes turned a bend of the river.
“What now?” demanded Harold, looking at his companion to observe the direction of his eyes.
“I’m a Dutchman,” exclaimed Disco in a hoarse whisper that might have been heard half a mile off, “if it’s not a zebra!”
“So it is; my rifle—look sharp!” said Harold eagerly.
The weapon was handed to him, but before it could be brought to bear, the beautiful striped creature had tossed its head, snorted, whisked its tail, kicked up its heels, and dashed into the jungle.
“Give way, lads; let’s after him,” shouted Disco, turning the canoe’s bow to shore.
“Hold on,” cried Harold; “you might as well go after a needle in a haystack, or a locomotive.”
“So I might,” admitted Disco, with a mortified air, resuming his course; “but it ain’t in reason to expect a feller to keep quiet w’en he sees one o’ the very picturs of his child’ood, so to speak, come alive an’ kick up its heels like that.”