“Yes, playing pony and mule-herd. Nobody at home but me in this big three-storey house.”
“But what about breakfast?” said Chris anxiously.
“Over hours and hours ago. Hungry?”
“I think so: I feel very hungry.”
“That’s a good sign,” cried Ned, grinning. “Now I’ll confess. That’s why I roused you up. There’s coffee hot, and damper, and a split-up and frizzled bird. I don’t know what it is. Sort of vulture crow, perhaps.”
“What! A carrion bird?” cried Chris. “Disgusting! They’re not good to eat.”
“Oh, these are—delicious. I ate half of one this morning. Perhaps they’re not carrion birds, though.”
“It’s all your gammon,” cried Chris. “Who shot them?”
“Old Griggs, when they came after the water.”
“That proves it. Old Griggs knows what’s good to eat well enough.—Hah, that’s better. I’m not quite so stiff now. But is there plenty of water?”