Jack and Francis
had caught the fish at the edge of the sea. My active wife had performed
the most laborious duty, in rolling the hogshead to the place and
breaking open the head.
The sun was going down as we finished supper, and, recollecting how
rapidly night succeeded, we hastened to our tent, where we found our
beds much more comfortable, from the kind attention of the good mother,
who had collected a large addition of dried grass. After prayers, we all
lay down; the monkey between Jack and Fritz, carefully covered with moss
to keep him warm. The fowls went to their roost, as on the previous
night, and, after our fatigue, we were all soon in a profound sleep.
We had not slept long, when a great commotion among the dogs and fowls
announced the presence of an enemy. My wife, Fritz, and I, each seizing
a gun, rushed out.
By the light of the moon, we saw a terrible battle going on: our brave
dogs were surrounded by a dozen jackals, three or four were extended
dead, but our faithful animals were nearly overpowered by numbers when
we arrived. I was glad to find nothing worse than jackals; Fritz and I
fired on them; two fell dead, and the others fled slowly, evidently
wounded. Turk and Flora pursued and completed the business, and then,
like true dogs, devoured their fallen foes, regardless of the bonds of
relationship.
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