Steve watched till the last scrap had been snatched from the crystal clear water, and then looked round as the Norseman flung in some more fragments which he had scraped from the massive skull.
“Seems only fair, sir, eh? The bears get fat on the young birds when they can reach them on the cliffs, and now the birds can get fat on the bear.”
“Why, it’s like making cannibals of them,” said Steve, “eating their own children second-hand.”
“Yes, sir,” said Johannes, pausing to whet his curious knife; “but that’s how things are. One lives upon another. Birds, beasts, and fishes, they’re all alike. But this will make a noble head when the skin’s dressed, and a pair of glass eyes put in, and the whole stuffed out a little. It will make you think about killing it when you get home.”
“I don’t want to think about killing the poor brute,” said Steve shortly. “Here, where’s my dog? Skeny!”
There was a sharp bark in answer, but no dog appeared.
“Where is he? Here, Skeny, Skeny!”
The dog answered with another sharp bark, and, directed by the sound, the boy advanced to find the collie curled up on a tarpaulin right forward under the bowsprit.
“Hullo, old chap! why don’t you come out?” cried Steve; but the dog only gave his tail a few short raps on the tarpaulin without moving his head, his eyes twinkling up from the furry hair in which his nose was buried.
“Not ill, are you?” continued Steve, bending down to pat his companion, but eliciting a whine, as if the caress had given pain.