While he was plodding heavily and wearily along, pondering these things, he came to the brow of a wave from which he beheld a most magnificent view of green grassy plains decked with flowers, and rolling out to the horizon, with a stream meandering through it, and clumps of trees scattered everywhere far and wide.  It was a glorious sight; but the most glorious object in it to Dick, at that time, was a fat buffalo which stood grazing not a hundred yards off.  The wind was blowing towards him, so that the animal did not scent him, and, as he came up very slowly, and it was turned away, it did not see him.

Crusoe would have sprung forward in an instant, but his master’s finger imposed silence and caution.  Trembling with eagerness, Dick sank flat down in the grass, cocked both barrels of his piece, and, resting it on his left hand with his left elbow on the ground, he waited until the animal should present its side.  In a few seconds it moved; Dick’s eye glanced along the barrel, but it trembled—­his wonted steadiness of aim was gone.  He fired, and the buffalo sprang off in terror.  With a groan of despair he fired again—­almost recklessly—­and the buffalo fell!  It rose once or twice and stumbled forward a few paces, then it fell again.  Meanwhile Dick reloaded with trembling hand, and advanced to give it another shot; but it was not needful—­the buffalo was already dead.

“Now, Crusoe,” said Dick, sitting down on the buffalo’s shoulder and patting his favourite on the head, “we’re all right at last.  You and I shall have a jolly time o’t, pup, from this time for’ard.”

Dick paused for breath, and Crusoe wagged his tail and looked as if to say—­pshaw! “as if!”

We tell you what it is, reader, it’s of no use at all to go on writing “as if,” when we tell you what Crusoe said.  If there is any language in eyes whatever—­if there is language in a tail, in a cocked ear, in a mobile eyebrow, in the point of a canine nose,—­if there is language in any terrestrial thing at all, apart from that which flows from the tongue, then Crusoe spoke! Do we not speak at this moment to you? and if so, then tell me wherein lies the difference between a written letter and a given sign?

Yes, Crusoe spoke.  He said to Dick as plain as dog could say it, slowly and emphatically, “That’s my opinion precisely, Dick.  You’re the dearest, most beloved, jolliest fellow that ever walked on two legs, you are; and whatever’s your opinion is mine, no matter how absurd it may be.”

Dick evidently understood him perfectly, for he laughed as he looked at him and patted him on the head, and called him a “funny dog.”  Then he continued his discourse:—­