It was the strangest meal ever eaten by Watson. The food was very savoury, and perfectly cooked and served. Only one dish reminded him of meat.
“You have meats?” he asked. “This looks like flesh.”
Geos shook his head. “No. Do you have flesh to eat, on the other side? We make all our food.”
MAKE food. Watson thought best simply to answer the question:
“As I remember it, Rhamda Geos, we had a sort of meat called beef—the flesh of certain animals.”
The Rhamda was intensely interested. “Are they large? Some interpret the Jarados to that effect. Tell me, are they like this?” And he pulled a silver whistle from his pocket and, placing it to his lips, blew two short, shrill notes.
Immediately a peculiar patter sounded down the corridor; a ka-tuck, ka-tuck, ka-tuck, not unlike galloping hoof-beats. Before Watson could do any surmising a little bundle of shining black, rounded the entrance to the room and ran up to them. Geos picked it up.
It was a horse. A horse, beautifully formed, perfect as an Arab, and not more than nine inches high!
Now, Chick had been in the Blind Spot, conscious, but a short while. He knew that he was in the precise position that Rhamda Avec had occupied that morning on the ferry-boat. Chick recalled the pictures of the Lilliputian deer and the miniature kittens; yet he was immensely surprised.
The little fellow began to neigh, a tiny, ridiculous sound as compared with the blast of a normal-sized horse, and began to paw for the edge of the table.