“You can stuff birds, then, sir?” I said, after a pause, during which our visitor made himself very busy examining everything I had.
“Well, yes, Nat, after a fashion. I’m not clever at it, for I never practise mounting. I can make skins.”
“Make skins, sir?”
“Yes, my boy. Don’t you see that when I am in some wild place shooting and collecting, every scrap of luggage becomes a burden.”
“Yes, sir; of course,” I said, nodding my head sagely, “especially if the roads are not good.”
“Roads, my boy,” he said laughing; “the rivers and streams are the only roads in such places as I travel through. Then, of course, I can’t use wires and tow to distend my birds, so we make what we call skins. That is to say, after preparing the skin, all that is done is to tie the long bones together, and fill the bird out with some kind of wild cotton, press the head back on the body by means of a tiny paper cone or sugar-paper, put a band round the wings, and dry the skin in the sun.”
“Yes, I know, sir,” I cried eagerly; “and you pin the paper round the bird with a tiny bamboo skewer, and put another piece of bamboo through from head to tail.”
“Why, how do you know?” he said wonderingly.
“Oh! Nat knows a deal,” said Uncle Joe, chuckling. “We’re not such stupid people as you think, Dick, even if we do stay at home.”
“I’ve got a skin or two, sir,” I said, “and they were made like that.”