the water
so rapidly, and that he would never gain control of his boat. Louder
and clearer came the sounds of the fighting monsters beyond the bend,
and there between him and safety lurked his latest enemy.

An impertinent, ridiculous twitter came from a tiny scarlet-crowned
songster, as if it were trying to advise and direct the hard-pressed
boy. Its solemn, round eyes stared at him, reproving and admonishing
him for his foolhardiness. Piang, on his knees, struggling with the
current, was unaware of his audience. Gradually he worked the boat
around and headed up-stream, straight for the crocodile. Surprised by
this sudden change in tactics, it snorted and opened its repulsive
jaws. Piang had hoped to catch it in this position, so, pressing
forward as rapidly as possible, he took careful aim and hurled his
knife into its mouth. Rising to his feet, spear poised, he waited
to see if the knife would be effective. The creature floundered and
slashed the water, gave a blood-curdling bellow, and rolled over on
its back, dead. A crocodile fights with its last breath to remain on
its belly, for if not dead, it drowns as soon as it turns over.

Piang wanted his weapon. The body of the animal was caught by the
current and shot rapidly past him down-stream, but the boy, warned
by the commotion further down, hesitated to follow it. He realized,
however, that his knife was very valuable to him, and that he was
sure to have urgent need of it again, so he started after the ugly
body. The sparkling wavelets sported and capered with their grewsome
burden, sometimes dashing it against some stray log, again bearing it
far across the river as if purposely assisting it to elude its pursuer.

Piang skilfully guided his banco in its wake, and finally succeeded in
thrusting his spear into its side, and pulled it toward the bank. The
knife was embedded far down in the terrible jaws, and Piang wondered
if he dared reach into them. He looked at the tusk-like teeth, the
first he had ever seen at close quarters, but he remembered with a
shudder the wounds that he had helped care for--wounds made by such
poisonous tusks.

Mustering his courage, he slowly extended his hand into its mouth. The
big, wet tongue flopped against his hand; the powerful jaws quivered
spasmodically, and the hot, fetid steam from the throat sickened
him. His knife! He must get it! Desperately he tugged at the handle;
it would not loosen its hold. Cold sweat broke out all