"Here's the bayou. Now for the 'gator," exclaimed Arnold as he flung down his pig and his gun.
"Faith, you're as pleased with yourself as if ye'd got the scaly beggar in your pocket this minute," complained the Irishman.
Arnold grinned. "How long a one do we want, Terry. Fifty dollars for six foot, and ten for each foot beyond. Fifty and five tens. Eleven foot's our minimum."
"Sure, there's one with a bit to spare," said Terence sharply, pointing.
Out of the dull waters something was heaving itself slowly up. Something long and rugged, like a rough barked, water-sodden log. So slowly did it rise that the oily water did not show a single ripple.
"Phew!" muttered Arnold. "That chap takes the cake! Never saw such a brute in my born days; thirteen foot if he's an inch. Terry, if we can collar him our fortune's made."
"More likely th' baste'll swallow us," retorted Terence.
"Not he. He's going to have something else to swallow. Keep an eye on the old scalawag, Terry, while I fix up a dose for him." And Arnold, plumping down on his knees, whipped out his knife and began operations. He slit open the pig, and then from the game bag pulled out a good-sized tin. In this were two packages, each carefully wrapped in oiled paper and sealed.
Arnold spread paper on the ground, and, turning out half the contents of each packet into two small white heaps, began to mix them together.
"Is it crazy ye are, Arnold?" demanded his Irish chum.