Somewhere on his right he felt certain that there was something moving. In the misty starlight he could discern, as he turned his head, a long, writhing object moving over the sand. At first he took the creature to be a large eel, but soon he was certain that the thing was a huge serpent. It was only ten paces off when Peter brought the gun to his shoulder and pressed the left trigger. The weapon clicked harmlessly. He pressed the right trigger. The result was the same. Dropping the useless weapon, Peter grasped the previously discarded rifle. A vivid flash stabbed the night air, followed by a sharp report that sent myriads of birds fluttering in terror from the trees on the river banks. Whether the bullet took effect or not Peter could not tell, but the reptile slewed round and with almost incredible rapidity made for the rocky wall of the island. "Hello! What's wrong?" inquired Uncle Brian, awake in a moment. Peter briefly outlined the situation. "H'm!" ejaculated his uncle. "Seems to me that we've chosen a sort of animal casual ward for our camp. Two misfires? Where's my torch?" The electric torch was soon forthcoming. Brian Strong picked up the gun and ejected both cartridges. On examination the caps in their bases showed no sign of a blow. Brian said nothing, but thought the more. He placed the double-barrelled weapon in the boat and unfastened the flap of his automatic holster. "Almost wish we'd carried on," he remarked at length. "At all events----" A crumbling, swirling sound interrupted his remarks. The "jam" that had been steadily and almost silently mounting up for the last hour or more had suddenly given way. The pent-up waters had forced the barrier of logs from the rocks that had impeded their progress, and now in a smother of foam the accumulated floating timber was speeding on its way. "No," continued Uncle Brian. "I think we'd better hang on where we are. We'll make a fire to cheer us up, though." CHAPTER XII "Caught Out" It was easier said than done. The overnight conflagration had destroyed every vestige of brushwood. With the prospect of being leapt upon by a highly formidable jaguar or seized by a boa-constrictor already incensed by the proximity of a high-velocity bullet, it was not advisable to attempt to gather driftwood under the base of the low cliff. To attempt to fish pieces of floating brushwood from the river, when in the dim light it was a matter of impossibility to distinguish between a waterlogged tendril and a watersnake--and at the same time to present their backs to the lurking foe on the rocks--was also too risky a proposition. "We'll have to sacrifice some of our petrol," decided Uncle Brian. "There's some cotton waste in the locker under the fore-deck."