aised the rifle
to his shoulder and took a quick but steady aim; a second later the loud
report rang out, and the monster, struck on his bony head by the heavy
bullet, sank in alarm; and then, ere Martin turned to run, two other
shots disturbed the silence and he pitched forward on his face into the
long grass.

* * * * *

"We just saw the beggar in time, sir," cried Jones. "I happened to look
across and caught sight of him just as he fired at Mr. Walters. Me and
Morris fired together."

Grayling had sprung to his feet. "Are you hit, Walters?" he shouted.

"No," replied the boy as he clambered up the bank; "what the deuce is
the matter?"

"A nigger took a pot-shot at you! Get under cover as quick as you can.
Never mind your clothes!"

Ten minutes passed. No sound broke the deathly stillness of the place;
and then, cautiously creeping through the grass, the officer and Morris
crawled round to where the latter had seen the man fall. They came upon
him suddenly. He was lying partly on his face, with his eyes looking
into theirs. Morris sprang up and covered him with his rifle.

"I'm done for," Martin said quietly "my back is broken. Did the
crocodile get the boy?"

"Crocodile!" said Grayling in astonishment. "Did you fire at a
crocodile? Who are you? Are you a white man?"

"Never mind who I am," he gasped; "let me lie here. Look," and he
pointed to a bullet-hole in his stomach; "it's gone clean through me and
smashed my backbone. Let me stay as I am."

He never spoke again, and died whilst a litter was being made to carry
him down to the beach.

THE RIVER OF DREAMS

I

There is a river I know which begins its life in a dark, sunless canyon
high up amid the thick forest-clad spurs of the range which traverses
the island from east to west. Here, lying deep and silent, is a pool,
almost encompassed by huge boulders of smooth, black rock, piled
confusedly together, yet preserving a certain continuity of outline
where their bases touch the water's edge. Standing far up on the
mountainside you can, from one certain spot alone, discern it two
hundred feet below, and a thick mass of tangled vine and creepers
stretching across its western side, through which the water flows on its
journey to the sea.

A narrow native path, used only by hunters of the wild pigs haunting the
depths of the gloomy mountain forest, led me to it one close, steaming
afternoon. I had been pigeon shooting along the crests o