By good fortune Dick and Joe Blunt happened to have such enormous gluttons as vis-a-vis that the portions of their respective bowls which they could not devour were gobbled up for them.  By good capacity and digestion, with no small amount of effort, Henri managed to dispose of his own share; but he was last of being done, and fell in the savages’ esteem greatly.  The way in which that sticky compost of boiled maize went down was absolutely amazing.  The man opposite Dick, in particular, was a human boa-constrictor.  He well-nigh suffocated Dick with suppressed laughter.  He was a great raw-boned savage, with a throat of indiarubber, and went quickly and quietly on swallowing mass 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 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.  Then one, which seemed to be the conductor, raised his snout to the sky and uttered a long, low, melancholy wail.  The others took it up by twos and threes, until the whole pack had their noses pointing to the stars and their throats distended to the uttermost, while a prolonged yell filled the air.  Then it sank gradually, one or two (bad performers probably) making a yelping attempt to get it up again at the wrong time.  Again the conductor raised his nose, and out it came—­full swing.  There was no vociferous barking.  It was simple wolfish howling increased in fervour to an electric yell, with slight barks running continuously through it like an obbligato accompaniment.