The dog, which was sitting watching, with a collie on either side—the latter evidently in doubt as to whether the joints were intended for the house—gave a deep bark.
“Now give him the biggest bit, sir.”
Nic stuck the fork in the piece of loin and held it out to the big dog, and it came and took it with a low muttering sound, wagging its tail slowly from side to side, while the collies grew excited, growled, and tossed up their heads to utter a protesting whine.
“Here, you, Nib, wait,” cried Samson. “Give t’other two their bits, sir.”
Nic served each collie, and then stared at what followed.
“Now then!” cried Samson, “take it out in the back and eat it. Show your chums the way. Right off. No messing about nigh the house. Off with you!”
The big dog uttered a low growl, and went off with its breakfast, the collies following; all three looking decidedly comic with their jaws distended.
“There you are, sir,” said the old man, wiping the chopper very carefully and then sticking it into the big clean block. “Seems a pity. Beautiful mutton. The brutes had only just pulled it down when Nib was on to ’em. Leather called me to see. It was half-hour’s walk, and there he was sitting by the sheep, and the two dead dingoes close by.”
“Didn’t he begin worrying it?” asked Nic.
“Him, sir? Nibbler worry a sheep? Not him. Why, I’ve seen him lie down and let the lambs play about him. I should like to ketch him at it. Not him, sir: I eddicated that dog. There ain’t his like nowhere. Coming along o’ me, Master Nic?”