after mass with the solemn gravity of an owl. It mattered not a straw
to him that Dick took comparatively small mouthfuls, and nearly choked
on them too for want of liquid to wash them down. Had Dick eaten none
at all he would have uncomplainingly disposed of the whole. Jack the
Giant-Killer's feats were nothing to his; and when at last the bowl
was empty, he stopped short like a machine from which the steam had
been suddenly cut off, and laid down his buffalo horn-spoon _without_
a sigh.

Dick sighed, though with relief and gratitude, when his bowl was
empty.

"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