But Brannigan's sympathies, warm if illogical, had begun to assert themselves with emphasis.
"This 'ere's my shindy, Long," he answered doggedly. "An' I say the poor little critter 'd oughter have her chance. She may pull through. An' good luck to her, ses I! We got all the fresh meat we want."
"Oh, if ye're feeling that way about the orphant, Tom, I ain't kickin' none," answered Jackson, spitting accurate tobacco-juice upon a small white boulder some ten or twelve feet distant. "I was only thinkin' we'd save the youngster a heap of trouble if we'd jest help her go the way of her ma right now."
"You ax her fer her opinion on that p'int!" grunted Brannigan, tugging the carcass of the moose on to the drag.
Long Jackson turned gravely to the calf.
"Do ye want to be left to the b'ars and the h'a'nts, in the big black woods, all by yer lonesome?" he demanded.
The calf, thus pointedly addressed, backed further into the bush and stared in mournful bewilderment.
"Or would ye rather be et, good an' decent, an' save ye a heap o' frettin'?" continued Long Jackson persuasively.
A bar-winged moose-fly, that vicious biter, chancing to alight at that moment on the calf's ear, she shook her lank head vehemently.
"What did I tell ye?" demanded Brannigan dryly. "She knows what she wants!"