“He is dead, isn’t he?” said Dyke dubious.
“As dead as he can well be,” said Emson, dismounting, and throwing his rein over his horse’s head. “Yes; here we are. Your bullet caught him half-way up the back here; one of mine hit him in the side, and here’s the other right through the left shoulder-blade. That means finis. But that shot of yours regularly paralysed him behind. Your lion, little un, and that skin will do for your museum. It’s a beauty.”
“But you killed him,” said the boy modestly.
“Put him out of his misery, that’s all. He is a splendid fellow, though. But he won’t run away now, little un.—Let’s get on.”
“But his skin?” said Dyke eagerly.
“Too hard a job now, Dyke, under this sun. We’ll come over this evening with Jack, and strip that off. Now for the eggs.”