“Where’s Jacko?” said Mark, looking round.
“Jack! Last time I saw him he was up a tree eating those sour berries just after I shot the last pigeon. He must have stayed back to feed.”
They whistled and called, while, as if comprehending it all, the dog barked; but all was still, and in the hope of finding their hairy companion they now pressed steadily on, passing the tree laden still with a bright purple kind of berry, but there was no sign of Jack.
“He’ll return to savage life, safe,” said the major. “It is too much of a temptation to throw in his way. Why, Mark, if I were a monkey I think I should.”
“I don’t think he’d leave Bruff now,” replied Mark. “They’re such friends that they wouldn’t part, and I’m sure my dog wouldn’t go.”
He glanced down at Bruff as he spoke, and the dog barked at him, and raised his injured paw.
“Well, we shall see,” said the major, as they forced their way on. “There’s where we stopped to listen for birds,” he continued, “and there’s the tree upon which I hung the pigeons.”
“Where?” asked Mark.
“Yonder, straight before you. There, lad, fifty yards away.”
“But I can’t see any pigeons,” said Mark.