Their old acquaintance, the singing beetle, chortled his loud way across the park.

Iris was dying--as women say--to remind Jenks of their first meeting with that blatant insect, but further talk was impossible; there was too much at stake--water they must have.
Then the light hiss of a snake rose to them from the depths.

That is a sound never forgotten when once heard.

It is like unto no other.
Indeed, the term "hiss" is a misnomer for the quick sibilant expulsion of the breath by an alarmed or angered serpent.
Iris paid no heed to it, but Jenks, who knew there was not a reptile of the snake variety on the island, leaned over the ledge and emitted a tolerably good imitation.

The native was beneath.