“Come under my plaidie, the night’s gaun to fa’.”
Well, getting such a welcome as this in the midst of a wilderness was enough to make our heroes forget all former hardships. The dinner was a banquet. There were many dishes that were new to them; but had Frank, who was fastidious as regards eating, known that lagarto soup was made from the iguana lizard, a perfect dragon; that curried potro was horse, and that peludo-pie was made of armadillo, I don’t think he would have sent his plate twice for either.
Frank trod on the tail of an iguana next day. The dragon, seven feet long, and fearful to behold, turned and snapped. Frank, armed with a stick, would not fly, but fought. The Scotchmen were delighted. They tossed their bonnets in the air, and shouted “Saint George for merrie England!” Never mind, they might laugh as they pleased; but Frank killed the dragon.
Saint George, as Chisholm now dubbed him, quite won the affection of the llama hunters next day; he was the only one of our heroes who kept alongside the Indians in their furious gallop at the heels of the fleet pacos.
(The lama pacos, hunted for its wool, chiefly used in rope and cloth-making.)
All day long Frank was well to the fore, and how he was wishing he could throw the lassoo or bolas.
Sweet Lizzie McDonald was the prettiest girl in the fort; she was the wildest huntress as well. She and her brothers “rigged out,” as Lyell called it, young Frank in native dress; and he rode by her side to the hills next day, presumably in the capacity of cavalier, but really as pupil. And Frank was an apt pupil; he didn’t think the time long.
“Lucky dog you,” said Lyell, “if I wasn’t a sailor, I’d throw myself at Lizzie’s feet. I wouldn’t mind being lassooed by a girl like her. Heigho!”