from my club finished him, and away he sailed with a half-broken wing. I was afraid he would return, but he passed out of sight among the overhanging vines, not to come back.
"Be jabers, that was a birrud I didn't calculate on!" gasped Matt Gory when he could speak. "Phat was it—a floyin' windmill?"
"It was a bat, Gory," I answered. "A tropical bat—and a whopper."
"I want no more such birruds," was the Irishman's response. "Oi reckon Oi'll be more careful of phat Oi tackle in the future," and he was.
We walked on for half a mile further, for it was a clear day and we were not likely to miss our way. The undergrowth was thick and we moved with caution, not caring to rouse up some deadly reptile. On all sides were stately palm, mahogany, ebony, and other trees of a tropical nature, and everywhere hung the ponderous vines, some of them hundreds of feet long and as thick as a man's wrist.
"A snake!" yelled Tom Dawson, of a sudden, and we all fell back, while I drew my pistol, not satisfied to trust to a club in such an emergency. Matt Gory, who had no use for snakes, took to his heels, and that was the last we saw of him for fully a quarter of an hour.
Our alarm proved of short duration, for I soon
