which might have risked all our lives."

Murray's face was scarlet, and he stood looking at his visitor without a
word, for in his heart of hearts he owned that he was right, and that
out there, in those wild jungles, he, Johnstone Murray, naturalist, who
had never thought of such a thing before, had found his fate.

"Yes," said Mr Braine again, thoughtfully, "a serious complication,
which might have risked all our lives."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE WHITE HEN.

Meanwhile Ned and Frank had gone off eagerly to the attack upon the
lurking water-dragon, terrible, in its way, as that which Saint George
slew, and about half-way to the stockade they caught sight of Tim
Driscol, seated under a tree, puffing away at a homemade pipe, composed
of a short piece of bamboo with a reed stuck in the side. He had a
neatly-made little basket by his knee, and as he saw the lads coming, he
tapped the ashes out of his pipe, thrust it in his pocket, and rose to
pick up his basket, in which there was evidently something alive.

"Bedad and I began to think ye didn't mane to come," he said, with his
eyes twinkling.

"Oh, I should have come, Tim, if he hadn't," replied Frank.

"Av coorse ye would.--No offinse, Mr Murray, but why don't ye have a
dress like the young master here? Don't he look fine? I hear you took
him for a young rajah."

"You come along, and don't talk stuff!" cried Frank. "Is that the
chicken?" and he nodded toward the basket. "Well sor, I'd like to tell
the truth when I can."

"What do you mean? Haven't you got a chicken?" cried Frank, wrathfully.
"No, sor."

"I gave you orders to get one for a bait, and if you haven't got one,
it's no use for us to go on."

"I did go to get one, sor."

"Well?"

"And the baste at the farthest off house said he'd find one for me."

"Well? Why, you have got it," cried Frank; "I can hear it rustling in
the basket."

"That isn't a chicken, sor."

"What is it, then?" cried Frank, impatiently.

"It's what he said was a chicken, sor."

"What is it, then?"

"I belave it's the ouldest hin about these parts, sor. He jabbered away
in his haythen dialect, and swore it was a tinder young chicken; but
it's an ould hin, that's laid eggs till she's tired, and won't lay any
more, and he wants to sell her."

"But is it white?"

"Oh yes! it's white enough, sir."

"That will do, then. I don't suppose the croc can tell whether a bird's
tender or tough. Come along."

Fran