“Thirty-six, if you count the babies in arms,” responded Peterkin.
“Of course we are entitled to count these.”
“I think you are both out in your reckoning,” said I, drawing out my note-book; “the last baby that I shot was our thirty-seventh.”
“What!” cried Peterkin, “the one with the desperately black face and the horrible squint, that nearly tore all the hair out of Jack’s head before he managed to strangle him? That wasn’t a baby; it was a big boy, and I have no doubt a big rascal besides.”
“That may be so,” I rejoined; “but whatever he was, I have him down as number thirty-seven in my list.”
“Pity we didn’t make up the forty,” observed Jack.
“Ah! yes indeed,” said Peterkin. “But let me see: could we not manage to make it up to that yet?”
“Impossible,” said I. “We are far away from the gorilla land now, I know; for, in addition to the fact that we have seen no traces of gorillas for a long time, we have, within the last few days, seen several lions, which, you are well aware, do not exist in the gorilla country.”
“True; but you mistake me,” rejoined Peterkin. “I do not mean to make up the number to forty by killing three more, but by proving, almost to demonstration, that we have already been the death of that number, in addition to those noted down.”
“You’ll find that rather difficult,” said Jack, laughing.