er a big crocodile's
eyes came slowly gliding down the stream; "I mean that a
Shakespeare-reading boy clever at giving nicknames--and that you can do
when you like--would have called that fellow Bottom the Weaver."

"I don't see why, uncle. Bottom the Weaver?" said the boy musingly, as
he slowly raised his gun.

"No, no; stop there, Rodd! That's my shot. I saw the brute first."

"All right, uncle; only don't miss;" and the boy lowered his gun. "But
who was Bottom the Weaver?"

"Tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the doctor. "I say, this is a big one,
Rodd--a monster."

"Here, I recollect, uncle. He was the man who was going to play lion."

"Good boy, Pickle; not so ignorant as I thought you were. Well, didn't
he say he'd roar him as gently as any sucking dove, so as not to
frighten the ladies?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Well, didn't our knife-armed Spaniard roar to us as gently as--"

_Bang_.

"Got him!" cried the doctor.

"No, no; a miss," cried Rodd.

_Bang_, again.

"That wasn't," said the doctor, and as the smoke drifted away there was
a burst of _vivas_ again from the Spaniards as they saw their dangerous
enemy writhing upon the surface with the contortions of an eel, as it
turned and twined, and then lashed the water up into foam, till in a
spasmodic effort it dived out of sight and was seen no more.

"Poor fellow!" said Joe Cross from the brig, in the most sympathetic of
tones. "Such a fine handsome one too, Mr Rodd, sir! Talk about a
smile, when he put his head out of the water, why, a tiger couldn't
touch it! It must have been three times as long."

So the work went on, and the tyrants of the river perished slowly, but
did not seem to shrink in numbers. But the carpentering party were able
to do their work in safety, and when, after the interval for dinner had
ended, Uncle Paul and his nephew carried on what Rodd called a reptilian
execution, the Spaniard's crew were lying about in the sunshine asleep
upon their deck. They were too idle to take any interest in the
shooting, while their captain, a rather marked object in the sunshine
from the bright scarlet scarf about his waist, worn to keep up his snowy
white duck trousers, lay upon the top of the big three-masted schooner's
deck-house with his face turned to the glowing sun, and with a cigarette
always in his mouth.

"I believe he goes on smoking when he's asleep, uncle," said Rodd.

"Yes, Pickle, and if I were an artist and wanted to paint a