"What!"
Conseil exclaimed.
"They make counterfeit birds of paradise?"
"Yes, Conseil."
"And is master familiar with how the islanders go about it?"
"Perfectly familiar.
During the easterly monsoon season, birds of paradise lose the magnificent feathers around their tails that naturalists call 'below–the–wing' feathers.
These feathers are gathered by the fowl forgers and skillfully fitted onto some poor previously mutilated parakeet.
Then they paint over the suture, varnish the bird, and ship the fruits of their unique labors to museums and collectors in Europe."
"Good enough!"
Ned Land put in.
"If it isn't the right bird, it's still the right feathers, and so long as the merchandise isn't meant to be eaten, I see no great harm!"
But if my desires were fulfilled by the capture of this bird of paradise, those of our Canadian huntsman remained unsatisfied.
Luckily, near two o'clock Ned Land brought down a magnificent wild pig of the type the natives call "bari–outang."
This animal came in the nick of time for us to bag some real quadruped meat, and it was warmly welcomed.
Ned Land proved himself quite gloriously with his gunshot.
Hit by an electric bullet, the pig dropped dead on the spot.
The Canadian properly skinned and cleaned it, after removing half a dozen cutlets destined to serve as the grilled meat course of our evening meal.
Then the hunt was on again, and once more would be marked by the exploits of Ned and Conseil.
In essence, beating the bushes, the two friends flushed a herd of kangaroos that fled by bounding away on their elastic paws.
But these animals didn't flee so swiftly that our electric capsules couldn't catch up with them.
"Oh, professor!" shouted Ned Land, whose hunting fever had gone to his brain.
"What excellent game, especially in a stew!
What a supply for the Nautilus!
Two, three, five down!
And just think how we'll devour all this meat ourselves, while those numbskulls on board won't get a shred!"
In his uncontrollable glee, I think the Canadian might have slaughtered the whole horde, if he hadn't been so busy talking!
But he was content with a dozen of these fascinating marsupials, which make up the first order of aplacental mammals, as Conseil just had to tell us.
These animals were small in stature.
They were a species of those "rabbit kangaroos" that usually dwell in the hollows of trees and are tremendously fast; but although of moderate dimensions, they at least furnish a meat that's highly prized.
We were thoroughly satisfied with the results of our hunting.
A gleeful Ned proposed that we return the next day to this magic island, which he planned to depopulate of its every edible quadruped.
But he was reckoning without events.
By six o'clock in the evening, we were back on the beach.
The skiff was aground in its usual place.
The Nautilus, looking like a long reef, emerged from the waves two miles offshore.
Without further ado, Ned Land got down to the important business of dinner.
He came wonderfully to terms with its entire cooking.
Grilling over the coals, those cutlets from the "bari–outang" soon gave off a succulent aroma that perfumed the air.
But I catch myself following in the Canadian's footsteps.
Look at me—in ecstasy over freshly grilled pork!
Please grant me a pardon as I've already granted one to Mr. Land, and on the same grounds!
In short, dinner was excellent.
Two ringdoves rounded out this extraordinary menu.
Sago pasta, bread from the artocarpus, mangoes, half a dozen pineapples, and the fermented liquor from certain coconuts heightened our glee.
I suspect that my two fine companions weren't quite as clearheaded as one could wish.
"What if we don't return to the Nautilus this evening?"
Conseil said.
"What if we never return to it?"
Ned Land added.