"What did he say it looked like?" asked Smythe.
"A sort of thing between a tiger and a donkey," answered Fowle very seriously.
"Rum," said Smythe. "It might belong to the zebra family."
"Zebras don't growl," said Freckles.
"More they do," admitted Smythe. "They bray."
Then he went on to tell us some things about zebras that we didn't know ourselves.
"If it could be killed, it would be a good thing," said Smythe; "and the chap who did it would have a very precious charm, because the skin, or part of the skin of a savage beast is a very tremendous charm to the man or boy who gets it. The Boringos, my father said—at least, I think they were Boringos, or if not, Kinnatoos, or some other tribe—always wear the skin of a fierce beast next their own skin, and by so doing get the fierceness of the beast into themselves, and so nobody ever interferes with them, and they always have the most remarkable luck, and live to a great age. So this fierce beast would be a good chance."
"You might have a dash at it," said Freckles, though he could hardly help laughing. "If you killed it and skinned it, and wore a bit of the skin, it would be a fine thing for you."
"Yes, it would," admitted Smythe. "I'd risk a good deal; but I've got nothing to kill anything with except a catapult, and of course that's no good against a fierce and growling beast."
Everybody laughed, but young Smythe was as serious as possible.