"I hope I may never have to do it again," said Joe that night as they
wended their way back to the chief's tent after supper. "I wouldn't be
fit for anything for a week arter it."
Dick could only laugh, for any allusion to the feast instantly brought
back that owl-like gourmand to whom he was so deeply indebted.
Henri groaned. "Oh! mes boy, I am speechless! I am ready for bust!
Oui--hah! I veesh it vas to-morrow."
Many a time that night did Henri "veesh it vas to-morrow," as he lay
helpless on his back, looking up through the roof of the chief's tent
at the stars, and listening enviously to the plethoric snoring of Joe
Blunt.
He was entertained, however, during those waking hours with a serenade
such as few civilized ears ever listen to. This was nothing else than
a vocal concert performed by all the dogs of the village, and as they
amounted to nearly two thousand the orchestra was a pretty full one.
These wretches howled as if they had all gone mad. Yet there was
"method in their madness;" for they congregated in a crowd before
beginning, and sat down on their haunches.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162