"Still, we might have made room for a pair of poor little donkeys!"
observed Ardan; "how I love the poor beasts. Fellow feeling, you will
say. No doubt, but there really is no animal I pity more. They are the
most ill-treated brutes in all creation. They are not only banged during
life; they are banged worse after death!"

"Hey! How do you make that out?" asked his companions, surprised.

"Because we make their skins into drum heads!" replied Ardan, with an
air, as if answering a conundrum.

Barbican and M'Nicholl could hardly help laughing at the absurd reply of
their lively companion, but their hilarity was soon stopped by the
expression his face assumed as he bent over Satellite's body, where it
lay stretched on the sofa.

"What's the matter now?" asked Barbican.

"Satellite's attack is over," replied Ardan.

"Good!" said M'Nicholl, misunderstanding him.

"Yes, I suppose it is good for the poor fellow," observed Ardan, in
melancholy accents. "Life with one's skull broken is hardly an enviable
possession. Our grand acclimatization project is knocked sky high, in
more senses than one!"

There was no doubt of the poor dog's death. The expression of Ardan's
countenance, as he looked at his friends, was of a very rueful order.