“My son,” replied Ken, genially, “if you should happen to meet a jaguar you’d--you’d just let out one squawk and then never touch even the high places of the jungle. You’d take that crazy .32 rifle for a golf-stick.” “Would I?” returned George. “All right.” Ken watched George awhile that morning. The lad performed a lot of weird things around camp. Then he bounced bullets off the water in vain effort to locate the basking crocodile. Then he tried his hand at fishing once more. He could get more bites than any fisherman Ken ever saw, but he could not catch anything. By and by the heat made Ken drowsy, and, stretching himself in the shade, he thought of a scheme to rid the camp of the noisy George. “Say, George, take my hammerless and get Pepe to row you up along the shady bank of the river,” suggested Ken. “Go sneaking along and you’ll have some sport.” George was delighted with that idea. He had often cast longing eyes at the hammerless gun. Pepe, too, looked exceedingly pleased. They got in the boat and were in the act of starting when George jumped ashore. He reached for his .32 and threw the lever down to see if there was a shell in the chamber. Then he proceeded to fill his pockets with ammunition. “Might need a rifle,” he said. “You can’t tell what you’re going to see in this unholy jungle.” Whereupon he went aboard again and Pepe rowed leisurely up-stream. “Be careful, boys,” Ken called, and composed himself for a nap. He promptly fell asleep. How long he slept he had no idea, and when he awoke he lay with languor, not knowing at the moment what had awakened him. Presently he heard a shout, then a rifle-shot. Sitting up, he saw the boat some two hundred yards above, drifting along about the edge of the shade. Pepe was in it alone. He appeared to be excited, for Ken observed him lay down an oar and pick up a gun, and then reverse the performance. Also he was jabbering to George, who evidently was out on the bank, but invisible to Ken. “Hey, Pepe!” Ken yelled. “What ’re you doing?” Strange to note, Pepe did not reply or even turn. “Now where in the deuce is George?” Ken said, impatiently. The hollow crack of George’s .32 was a reply to the question. Ken heard the singing of a bullet. Suddenly, _spou!_ it twanged on a branch not twenty feet over his head, and then went whining away. He heard it tick a few leaves or twigs. There was not any languor in the alacrity with which Ken put the big cypress-tree between him and up-stream. Then he ventured to peep forth.