IN THE SWAMPS 177 



dile, and it is only when one has carried off a 

 child or a dog, or takes up its abode too near a vil- 

 lage for the comfort of the inhabitants, that he 

 organizes to kill. 'Twas on such an occasion that 

 I happened now. For six or seven miles we 

 skirted the jungle, across the mangrove swamps 

 and the mud flats, before we came to a small collec- 

 tion of houses elevated upon piles along the banks 

 of a sluggish stream. Here we pitched camp. 



Shooting crocodiles is no sport; you sit in the 

 bow of a canoe, rifle at hand, while two men paddle 

 silently forward until you sight a dark, olive green, 

 loglike thing on the mud. The " thing " is not 

 so inanimate as it looks. Perhaps you have mo- 

 mentary sight of a yellowish patch, the under side 

 of its throat, as it moves off ; and then you fire and 

 paddle with all speed to where the creature was; 

 was, I repeat, for nine times out of ten past tense 

 is the proper one. You may see a few spots of 

 blood to indicate you have scored, but rarely is a 

 crocodile killed instantly, and otherwise it is not 

 secured. No matter how severely wounded, it 

 finds its way into the river to die and sink, or to 

 fall prey to other crocodiles. Of about a dozen I 

 wounded to the death, I secured only one, and that 

 because I was able to approach within ten yards, 

 and, with my lead-pointed ball mushrooming, 

 drilled the disgusting reptile through and through. 

 12 



