“There’s one,” said George, pointing. “Let’s get closer, so we can grab him. He’s got a good piece to go before he reaches the water.” Pepe rowed slowly along, guiding the boat a little nearer the shore. At forty feet the crocodile raised up, standing on short legs, so that all but his tail was free of the ground. He opened his huge jaws either in astonishment or to intimidate them, and then Ken shot him straight down the throat. He flopped convulsively and started to slide and roll. When he reached the water he turned over on his back, with his feet sticking up, resembling a huge frog. Pepe rowed hard to the shore, just as the crocodile with one last convulsion rolled off into deeper water. Ken reached over, grasped his foot, and was drawing it up when a sight of cold, glassy eyes and open-fanged jaws made him let go. Then the crocodile sank in water where Pepe could not touch bottom with an oar. “Let’s get one if it takes a week,” declared George. The lad might be sick, but there was nothing wrong with his spirit. “Look there!” he exclaimed. “Oh, I guess it’s a log. Too big!” They had been unable to tell the difference between a crocodile and a log of driftwood until it was too late. In this instance a long, dirty-gray object lay upon a low bank. Despite its immense size, which certainly made the chances in favor of its being a log, Ken determined this time to be fooled on the right side. He had seen a dozen logs--as he thought--suddenly become animated and slip into the river. “Hold steady, Pepe. I’ll take a crack at that just for luck.” The distance was about a hundred yards, a fine range for the little rifle. Resting on his knee, he sighted low, under the gray object, and pulled the trigger twice. There were two spats so close together as to be barely distinguishable. The log of driftwood leaped into life. “Whoop!” shouted Hal. “It’s a crocodile!” yelled George. “You hit--you hit! Will you listen to that?” “Row hard, Pepe--pull!” He bent to the oars, and the boat flew shoreward. The huge crocodile, opening yard-long jaws, snapped them shut with loud cracks. Then he beat the bank with his tail. It was as limber as a willow, but he seemed unable to move his central parts, his thick bulk, where Ken had sent the two mushroom bullets. _Whack_! _Whack_! _Whack_! The sodden blows jarred pieces from the clay-bank above him. Each blow was powerful enough to have staved in the planking of a ship. All at once he lunged upward and, falling over backward, slid down his runway into a few inches of water, where he stuck. “Go in above him, Pepe,” Ken shouted. “Here-- Heavens! What a monster!”