Samson stopped at the far end of the farthest shed, where there was a little lean-to; and on raising a wooden latch and throwing open the door, there within hung half a sheep, with the skin on a peg, and a chopping-block and a hatchet in the middle.
“Slaughterhouse, sir,” said Samson, with a grin. “’Bliged to be our own butchers out here,—fishermen too. S’pose you’ll ketch our fish now? Mind chopping off some o’ that sheep while I hold it on the block?”
“I? No,” said Nic.
“That’s your sort!” said the man, lifting the half sheep from a hook fastened in the beam overhead. “Emmygrunts does anything. I want you to chop off that lyne, and then cut it in three bits for the dogs.”
“Then you don’t only give them bones?” said Nic.
“Gives dogs what we’ve got plenty on. It’s mutton now. We don’t want this to spyle. It was alive and well yes’day, but a couple o’ dingoes hunted the pore thing down. Hi! Nib, what come o’ them dingoes?”
“R–r–r–r–ur,” snarled the big dog fiercely.
“Ay, you did, mate. He gave them dingo, sir. These wild dogs is one of our biggest noosances after the sheep. Now, please chop straight. Well done, sir! There’s three. Take care. That chopper’s very sharp. Now through there and there. That’s right. Three bits. I was going to bury half on it, for it won’t keep mor’n two nights; but your two sheep, dogs’ll help him. We’ll feed ’em up a bit for two or three days, and then starve ’em for two or three more to put it straight. Now then, sir, you stick the fork into they three bits, and you shall feed ’em, that’ll clinch old Nibbler’s making friends with you. See?”
Nic nodded.
“Look,” said Samson: “he knows what I’ve been saying.”