“Perhaps he would rather have some roast parrot,” observed Doyle, who had just before placed several birds on spits before the fire to cook for breakfast. As we had many more than we absolutely required, we could easily spare them. Doyle and I therefore got each a couple, and carried them on the spits to the savage, whose eyes brightened when he saw them; and he and his son almost snatched them from our hands when we offered them, and, without any gesture of thankfulness, hurried off to where the woman and children were sitting.
“Arrah, Mr Pullingo, do you call that good manners?” exclaimed Paddy. “However, it’s the way of the country, I suppose; though I can’t say it’s a good way. Just give the little ones their share, though, and I’ll not be after finding fault with you.”
As we watched the natives, we observed that they at once tore the birds to pieces, and before they themselves had eaten they gave each of the children a joint.
“Come, I have hopes of you, since you look after the childher,” cried Paddy, when he saw this. “We shall find that Mr Pullingo is a decent sort of fellow when he learns some more of our ways.”
It appeared that Pullingo was as pleased with us as Paddy was with him, for we saw him shortly afterwards employed, with his wife and son, in building a hut, at a spot some way up the river, under the cliff. It was not a very dignified structure: it consisted simply of a number of long thin sticks stuck in a circle in the ground, their tops being bent over and secured together by grass rope; the whole was then covered with sheets of rough bark, fastened on by the same sort of rope. The first hut was intended for Pullingo and his wife; they afterwards put up a smaller one for their big son and the younger children.
These structures, rude as they were, were superior to those we afterwards met with built by the natives, and showed us that Pullingo was more advanced in civilisation than the generality of his countrymen. Whether or not the rest of his tribe were in the neighbourhood, we could not ascertain; at all events, it was satisfactory to have gained his friendship, as he would give a favourable report of us to other natives, and prevent them, we hoped, from molesting us.
I forgot to say that Tommy Peck, though a harum-scarum fellow, possessed considerable artistic talent; superior, at all events, to any of the rest of us. He used to amuse Edith by making drawings and figures in her sketch-book—which had, with her small library, been brought on shore—she herself being only able to draw landscapes.
“Shouldn’t you like, Miss Edith, to have a portrait of Prince Pullingo and his beautiful bride?” he asked. “I don’t think I can do it from memory, but perhaps I can get them to sit for their likeness.”
“By all means,” answered Edith; “though I very much doubt that you will succeed in inducing them to sit quiet while you make your sketch.”
“Trust me for that,” said Tom. “Lend me your book and pencil, and a piece of india-rubber, and I’d try;” and, armed with his apparatus, he walked slowly towards Pullingo’s encampment. Harry and I followed at a distance, so that we might not interrupt him. On arrival, he made them a bow and announced his object, showing them his book, in which were the portraits of several of our party,—Harry and I, and Popo,—by no means flattering likenesses.