“Take lion’s babies too?” she said, shaking her head severely. “Not good eat.”
“Who wants to eat them?” said Dyke. “No: I’m going to keep them. Come, make haste. I want to see those birds cooking into soup.”
“Soup? Ooomps. Tant know make tea—coffee—dinner.”
“No, no; soup.”
“Ooomps; make bird tea, coffee? Baas Joe drink in spoon.”
“Yes, that’s right; you understand,” cried Dyke, and the woman hurried out with the birds, the dog following her, his instinct teaching him that there would be the heads and possibly other odds and ends to fall to his share. But before going, he went and poked at the two cubs and uttered a low bark.
“What do you think of these, Joe?” said Dyke, picking up his prizes, and placing them on the bed.
“Dangerous, little un,” said Emson feebly. “The mother will scent them out.”
“No: I feel sure it was their mother I shot last night. She lies out yonder where Tant and I dragged her.”
“Ah!” said Emson softly, “it was her skin Tant brought in to show me. She stripped it off to-night.”