I threw the cartridge from the magazine into the barrel, and raised the gun to my shoulder just as the huge saurian struck the water. My bullet caught him underneath, near the back legs. My companion’s must have had more effect, for the crocodile stopped as though stunned. I had time to drop my gun and snatch up my revolver.
It was an easy shot. The bullet sped true to its mark and entered one of the small fiery eyes. The huge frame seemed to quiver as though a charge of electricity had gone through it and then stiffened out,—dead.
Our Malay boys got a rope of tough gamooty fibres around the great head, and we towed our prize out into the stream just as the Resident’s launch, bearing the Prince and the ladies, steamed up the river to watch the sport.
A crowd of servants got the crocodile up on the bank near the palace grounds and drew it two hundred yards to their quarters. Now comes the strangest part of the story.
My servants had half completed the task of skinning him, for I wished to send his hide to the Smithsonian, when the muezzin sounded the call to prayers from the little mosque near by. In an instant the devout Mohammedans were on their faces and the crocodile in his half-skinned state was left until a more convenient time. At six o’clock the next morning I was awakened by a knock at my door:—
“Tuan, Tuan Consul, come see boyah (crocodile).”
I got up, wrapped a sarong about me, put my feet into a pair of grass slippers, and followed my guide out of the palace, through the courts to where the crocodile had been the night before, but no crocodile was to be seen. My guide grinned and pointed to a heavy trail that looked like the track of a stone-boat drawn by a yoke of oxen.
We followed it for a hundred yards in the direction of the river, and came upon the crocodile, covered with blood and mud. His own hide hung about him like a dress, and his one eye opened and shut at the throng of wondering natives about. It was not until he had been put out of his misery and his hide taken entirely off that we felt confident of his bona fide demise.
One day I had a real adventure while out shooting, which, like many real adventures, was made up principally of the things I thought and suffered rather than of the things I did. Hence I hardly know how to write it out so that it will look like an “adventure” and not a mere mishap.
My companion had told me of a trail some thirty miles up the river that led into the jungle about three miles, to some old gold workings that date back beyond the written records of the State. So one day we drew our little launch close up under the bank of the river, and I sprang ashore, bent on seeing for myself the prehistoric remains. Contrary to the advice of the Chief Justice, I only took a heavy hunting-knife with me, and it was more for slashing away thorns and rattans than for protection.