A PUZZLER. 349 
in the chorus. I stole carefully in the direction 
from which the sound came, but as I neared the 
spot the whistle ceased, and it was now far too 
dark to descry any object on the ground. So, in 
doubt, and sorely puzzled to account for such an 
unusual sound, and with a firm determination to 
unravel the mystery in the morning, I returned 
to my camp. Could it be Indians? No, im- 
possible; there were far too many whistlers, and 
the tone of each whistle was precisely alike. I 
was equally sure it was not the cry of the 
rock-whistler (Actomys); that sound I knew 
too well. What could it be? 
As the grey light of morning came peering 
into my tent, I started off to investigate the 
secret of the mysterious whistler; but all I could 
discover, after a long and diligent search, was, 
that there were numerous runs and burrows ex- 
cavated in the sandy banks of the river, but by 
what sort of animal I could not for the life of me 
guess. Setting a steel-trap at the entrance to 
one of the holes, I strolled down to the Indian 
village, thinking I should possibly be able to find 
out from the redskins what it was that made such 
shrill sounds. Partly by signs, and by using as 
much of their language as I knew, I endeavoured 
to make the old chief comprehend my queries. 
