He examined Pan carefully; there were no signs of a fight on him—nothing but cleavers or the seeds of goose-grass clinging to his coat. Bang—thump—thump! yow! Pan had his thrashing, and crept after them to and fro, not even daring to curl himself up in a corner, but dragging himself along on the ground behind them.
“Think,” said Mark, as he turned the mushrooms on the gridiron; “now, what was it?”
“Not a fox?” said Bevis.
“No; foxes would not swim out here; there are plenty of rabbits for them in the jungle on the mainland.”
“Nor eagles?”
“No.”
“Might be a cat.”
“But there are no cats on the island, and, besides, cats would not take bacon when there were the two moorhens on the shelf.”
“No; Pan would have had the moorhens too, if it had been him.”
“So would anything, and that’s why it’s so curious.”