"No, sir," said Dean, smiling. "It don't sound nice, but I know a little about cooking, and when them 'Stralian grubs are nicely cooked over the fire they are not to be sneezed at. There's another thing too that's very nice eating, baked or roasted, and that's a locus', and I shouldn't wonder if you could find them out here, for they come in clouds up in the north and eat everything they find." "Well, don't cook any for us, Dan," said Mark. "There's no need, sir, with such a good supply of venison, as you gents call it, and game birds." "But I should like you to try your hand with the frying-pan and some fish." "You catch the fish, Mr Mark, sir, and leave it to me, and I'll promise to fry it to rights, egged and crumbed and all." "What!" cried Dean. "Well, no, that arn't right, sir. Allers speak the truth, Dan, my boy, my grandmother used to say; and I will if I can. I could clean and scale and egg the fish to rights. We can get plenty of them comebacks' eggs, but the crumbing of them would rather bother me, and I should have to do it with mealie flour." There was a short silence as the men sat smoking, and then Mark broke out with, "We will have a try for some fish; but who is it does the fishing up here, then, Buck?" The big driver chuckled, and his eyes twinkled in the firelight. "The whoppers, sir." "The whoppers!" "Yes, sir; the crocs. I daresay if you went down by the river and listened just at daybreak you would hear them at it, flapping the river with their tails to stun the fish." "But that wouldn't stun the fish," cried Dean. "Oh, come, I say, what a traveller's tale!" And Mark laughed as if agreeing with his cousin. "Well, it may be a traveller's tale, sir, but if you was there you'd see the fish come to the top upside down, I mean, white side up'ards, and the crocs shovelling them down as fast as you like. That's all I know about it." "But is that true, Buck?" "Yes, sir; true enough, for I have seen it. I wouldn't tell you a tale like that without letting you know it was a bam-bam afterwards." "Ah, well, I'll believe you, Buck. Ugh! Listen! What's that? Did you ever hear anything so horrible in your life! Somebody's being killed. There it is again! There!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN. "DON'T WAKE THE WRONG MAN." "What are you laughing at, Buck?" "You, sir," cried the man. "You'll get more used to our noises in time." "Then it's that horrible brute of a hyaena again. What a doleful howl! Sounds just as if it was crying after its mother." "But that isn't it, sir. He's howling after his supper."