“Yes, pup, we’ll make our camp here for a long bit, old dog, in this beautiful plain.  We’ll make a willow wigwam to sleep in, you and I, jist in yon clump o’ trees, not a stone’s-throw to our right, where we’ll have a run o’ pure water beside us, and be near our buffalo at the same time.  For, ye see, we’ll need to watch him lest the wolves take a notion to eat him—­that’ll be your duty, pup.  Then I’ll skin him when I get strong enough, which’ll be in a day or two, I hope, and we’ll put one-half of the skin below us and t’other half above us i’ the camp, an’ sleep, an’ eat, an’ take it easy for a week or two—­won’t we, pup?”

“Hoora-a-a-y!” shouted Crusoe, with a jovial wag of his tail, that no human arm with hat, or cap, or kerchief ever equalled.

Poor Dick Varley!  He smiled to think how earnestly he had been talking to the dog; but he did not cease to do it, for although he entered into discourses the drift of which Crusoe’s limited education did not permit him to follow, he found comfort in hearing the sound of his own voice, and in knowing that it fell pleasantly on another ear in that lonely wilderness.

Our hero now set about his preparations as vigorously as he could.  He cut out the buffalo’s tongue—­a matter of great difficulty to one in his weak state—­and carried it to a pleasant spot near to the stream where the turf was level and green, and decked with wild flowers.  Here he resolved to make his camp.

His first care was to select a bush whose branches were long enough to form a canopy over his head when bent, and the ends thrust into the ground.  The completing of this exhausted him greatly, but after a rest he resumed his labours.  The next thing was to light a fire—­a comfort which he had not enjoyed for many weary days.  Not that he required it for warmth, for the weather was extremely warm, but he required it to cook with, and the mere sight of a blaze in a dark place is a most heart-cheering thing, as every one knows.

When the fire was lighted he filled his pannikin at the brook and put it on to boil, and cutting several slices of buffalo tongue, he thrust short stakes through them and set them up before the fire to roast.  By this time the water was boiling, so he took it off with difficulty, nearly burning his fingers and singeing the tail of his coat in so doing.  Into the pannikin he put a lump of maple sugar, and stirred it about with a stick, and tasted it.  It seemed to him even better than tea or coffee.  It was absolutely delicious!

Really one has no notion what he can do if he makes believe very hard.  The human mind is a nicely balanced and extremely complex machine, and when thrown a little off the balance can be made to believe almost anything, as we see in the case of some poor monomaniacs, who have fancied that they were made of all sorts of things—­glass and porcelain, and such like.  No wonder then that poor Dick Varley, after so much suffering and hardship, came to regard that pannikin of hot sirup as the most delicious beverage he ever drank.