his breath with the pain, and, catching up the little
Mulgar's own cudgel that lay in the snow, rapped him angrily on the
head. After that Nod struggled no more. A thick piece of cloth was tied
fast round his jaws. The Oomgar slipped the barrel of his musket through
the Cullum-rope, lifted the little Mulgar on to his back, and strode off
with him through the darkening forest.

They came out after a while from among the grasses, vines, and
undergrowth. The Oomgar climbed heavily up a rocky slope, trudged on
over an open and level space of snow, across an icy yet faintly stirring
stream, and came at length to a low wooden house drifted deep in snow,
in front of which a big fire was burning, showering up sparks into the
starry sky. Here the Oomgar stooped and tumbled Nod over his shoulder
into the snow at a little distance from the fire. He bent his head to
the flames, and examined his bitten thumb, rubbed the blood off with a
handful of snow, sucked the wound, bound it roughly with a strip of blue
cloth, and tied the bandage in a knot with his teeth. This done, making
a strange noise with his lips like the hissing of sap from a green
stick, he began plucking off the wing and tail feathers of a large grey
bird. This he packed in leaves, and uncovering a little hole beneath the
embers, raked it out, and pushed the carcass in to roast.

He squinnied narrowly over his shoulder a moment, then went into his hut
and brought out a cooking-pot, which he filled with water from the
stream, and put into it a few mouse-coloured roots called Kiddals, which
in flavour resemble an artichoke, and are very wholesome, even when
cold. He hung his cooking-pot over the fire on three sticks laid
crosswise. Then he sat down and cleaned his musket while his supper was
cooking.

All this Nod watched without stirring, almost without winking, till at
last the Oomgar, with a grunt, put down his gun, and came near and stood
over him, staring down with a crooked smile on his mouth, between his
yellow hair and the short, ragged beard beneath. He held out his
bandaged thumb. "There, little master," he said coaxingly, "have another
taste; though I warn ye," he added, wagging his head, "it'll be your
werry last." Nod's restless hazel eyes glanced to and fro above the
stifling cloth wound round his mouth. He felt sullen and ashamed. How
his brother Thimble would have scoffed to see him now, caught like a
sucking-pig in a snare!

The Oomgar smiled again