‘There’s one!’ says Pat in a whisper.

‘Be sure and not strike too soon,’ says Willie.

‘Look out there, you lazy rascals!’ This in Hindostanee to the grooms and servants who were with us.

Again the black mass rises to the surface, but this time nearer to the fated duck.  As if aware of its peril it now struggles and quacks most vociferously.  Nearer and nearer each time the black snout rises, and then each time silently disappears beneath the turgid muddy stream.  Now it appears again; this time there are two, and there is another at a distance attracted by the quacking of the duck.  We on the bank cower down and go as noiselessly as we can.  Sometimes the rope dips on the water, and the huge snout and staring eyes immediately disappear.  At length it rises within a few yards of the duck; then there is a mighty rush, two huge jaws open and shut with a snap like factory shears, and amid a whirl of foam and water and surging mud the poor duck and the hideous reptile disappear, and but for the eddying swirl and dense volumes of mud that rise from the bottom, nothing gives evidence of the tragedy that has been enacted.  The other two disappointed monsters swim to and fro still further disturbing the muddy current.

‘Give him lots of time to swallow,’ yells Pat, now fairly mad with excitement.

The grooms and grass-cutters howl and dance.  Willie and I dig each other in the ribs, and all generally act in an excited and insane way.

Pat now puts the rope over his shoulder, we all take hold, and with a ‘one, two, three!’ we make a simultaneous rush from the bank, and as the rope suddenly tightens with a pull and strain that nearly jerks us all on our backs, we feel that we have hooked the monster, and our excitement reaches its culminating point.

What a commotion now in the black depths of the muddy stream!  The water, lashed by his powerful tail, surges and dashes in eddying whirls.  He rises and darts backwards and forwards, snapping his horrible jaws, moving his head from side to side, his eyes glaring with fury.  We hold stoutly on to the rope, although our wrists are strained and our arms ache.  At length he begins to feel our steady pull, and inch by inch, struggling demoniacally, he nears the bank.  When once he reaches it, however, the united efforts of twice our number would fail to bring him farther.  Bleeding and foaming at the mouth, his horrid teeth glistening amid the frothy, blood-flecked foam, he plants his strong curved fore-legs against the shelving bank, and tugs and strains at the rope with devilish force and fury.  It is no use—­the rope has been tested, and answers bravely to the strain; and now with a long boar spear, Pat cautiously descends the bank, and gives him a deadly thrust under the fore arm.  With a last fiendish glare of hate and defiance, he springs forward; we haul in the rope, Pat nimbly jumps back, and a pistol shot through the eye settles the monster for ever.  This was the first alligator I ever saw hooked; he measured sixteen and a half feet exactly, but words can give no idea of half the excitement that attended the capture.