ath the tree by the time Frank was talking
eagerly to the Malays, who now lay down again with their spears ready.

"Shall I howld the rope, sor?" said Tim.

"No. Mr Murray likes fishing," replied the lad, with a grin; "and he
shall hold the line till there's a bite. Better tie that other end,
though, to that little tree."

Tim obeyed, and then seated himself in the shadiest place he could find,
and took out his pipe again.

"Now, Ned, lay hold; and when the fish bites, give him plenty of line.
Don't strike."

Ned took the rope offered to him eagerly, and yet with a feeling of
reluctance, for the game was formidable.

"Let him go back into the river, and swallow the bait; then we'll talk
to him. Now all lie down and be quiet."

The Malays were already as silent and motionless as a group in bronze,
and Tim and the lads followed their example, every one watching the
white hen, which, in happy ignorance of its perilous position, still
pecked about quite close to the edge of the bank.

"Think it will come?" said Ned, after they had crouched there in silence
for quite an hour.

"Can't say," whispered back the other. "More likely perhaps to bite of
a night or early in the morning. Most likely to bite if we were not
here. Fish always do if I leave my rod for a bit. Getting tired of
waiting?"

"No; it's too exciting."

"No need to hold the rope without you like."

"But I do like. Will he pull very hard?"

"When he's hooked, but you must not let him pull hard when he first
takes the hen. It's just like some kinds of fishing; you don't want to
strike till the fish has swallowed the bait."

Another hour in that hot silence, and no signs of a crocodile. The
Malays were all watchful, their dark eyes fixed on the white bird, and
their spears ready; but Tim Driscol had fallen asleep with his pipe in
his mouth, and the sight of the Irishman with his eyes closed, and his
breath coming regularly, had a drowsy effect upon Ned, who half lay
there on his side watching the glaring river, with the water looking
every here and there like damascened metal. Then all at once, as Tim
Driscol's breath came thickly, the hen was not there, the rope was
running out fast, there was a sudden jerk, and Ned's eyes opened with a
start.

"Don't go to sleep," whispered Frank. "He may come at any time."

"Don't go to sleep!" Then he had been asleep and dreaming, for there
was the hen scratching about on the bank, and the rope