This assertion was met by an outburst of snarls and yells that made all start back and crouch down again in their sheltering hollow. As before, Blake was the first to recover.
“Bet you’re right,” he said. “The big one has gone off, and a pack of these African coyotes are having a scrap over the bones.”
“You mean jackals. It sounds like the nasty beasts.”
“If it wasn’t for that fog, I’d go down and get our share of the game.”
“Would it not be very dangerous, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie. “What a fearful noise!”
“I’ve chased coyotes off a calf with a rope; but that’s not the proposition. You don’t find me fooling around in that sewer gas of a fog. We’ll roost right where we are till the sun does for it. We’ve got enough malaria in us already.”
“Will it be long, Blake?” asked Winthrope.
“Huh? Getting hungry this quick? Wait till you’ve tramped around a week, with nothing to eat but your shoes.”
“Surely, Mr. Blake, it will not be so bad!” protested Miss Leslie.
“Sorry, Miss Jenny; but cocoanut palms don’t blow over every day, and when those nuts are gone, what are we going to do for the next meal?”