XI
Grun Waugh the Cave Lion reclined comfortably upon his side, beneath the lofty rock-shelter of Mawdlin—an overhanging cliff close to the right bank of the Vézère River. A few paces distant sat Scrag, his half-grown son. The latter was in the midst of his morning paw-scrub, a self-inflicted process indulged in by all members of the cat family and vulgarly known as “spit-wash.”
Scrag had spent the night in some wild orgy and had but recently returned home in the gray morning hours to where his parent awaited him. Judging from his appearance, he had experienced a lively time of it. His right eye was bunged and gashed so that he was obliged to depend entirely upon his left. One ear was torn and bleeding; it seemed to have been chewed. Father and son were conversing in low growls. At the moment Scrag had the floor and was recounting the details of his night’s adventures.
“I was hiding in the grass; lying low, chest and stomach to the ground, just as you have always told me to do. I cannot account for it, but he must have seen me.”
“How about your tail?” his sire remarked gruffly. “No doubt, that was waving in the air so that even a mole could see it.”
“Possibly,” Scrag admitted, slightly elevating the brows crowning his one good eye. “I may have been a trifle careless as to tail. I never thought about it. Well, anyhow, just as he passed me, I jumped.”
“And missed, I presume,” the Cave Lion grumbled with an I-suppose-I’ll-have-to-pay-the-bill air.
“Not exactly,” chuckled the other, applying himself diligently to his toilet. “True, I missed what I jumped at”—souse, souse—“but I did”—swish, swish—“hit something.”