"A fine--chase--you've given--me," Ken panted. "There's nothing--after us."
"Don't you fool yourself," returned George, quickly. "I saw those pigs, and, like the ass I am, I blazed away at one with my shotgun."
"Did he run at you? That's what I want to know?" demanded Ken.
George said he was not certain about that, but declared there always was danger if a wounded javelin squealed. Pepe had little to say; he refused to go back after the deer left in the trail. So they rowed across the shoal, and on the way passed within a rod of a big crocodile.
"Look at that fellow," cried George. "Wish I had my rifle loaded. He's fifteen feet long."
"Oh no, George, he's not more than ten feet," said Ken.
"You don't see his tail. He's a whopper. Pepe told me there was one in this pool. We'll get him, all right."
They reached camp tired out, and all a little ruffled in temper, which certainly was not eased by the discovery that they were covered with ticks. Following the cue of his companions, Ken hurriedly stripped off his clothes and hung them where they could singe over the camp-fire. There were broad red bands of pinilius round both ankles, and reddish patches on the skin of his arms. Here and there were black spots about the size of his little finger-nail, and these were garrapatoes. He picked these off one by one, rather surprised to find them come off so easily. Suddenly he jumped straight up with a pain as fierce as if it had been a puncture from a red-hot wire.
Pepe grinned; and George cried:
"Aha! that was a garrapato bite, that was! You just wait!"