y there was nothing left but a few scattered bones.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HOW DINNY HEARD A LION WID A BAD COWLD.

"They're avil-looking birruds thim vultures, Masther Dick," said Dinny,
as he saw the great flap-winged birds sailing slowly through the air,
some of them always being in attendance upon the waggon, knowing,
apparently by instinct, that the companionship of the hunting-party
meant food for them.

They kept at a respectful distance, though; not on account of the guns
and rifles, for they seemed to know that they would not be molested, but
because of the dogs, who resented their attendance as an insult, and as
likely to deprive them of many a pleasant bone.

Pompey, Caesar, and Crassus would make a dash at the great birds
whenever they saw them upon the plain, charging down upon them
open-mouthed, while Rough'un went at them in a way full of guile,
hanging his head down, and keeping his nose close to the ground, as if
in search of something he had lost. He never seemed to be taking the
slightest notice of the vultures, even turning his head away, but all
the time he was sidling nearer and nearer, till feeling that he was
within easy reach, he would make a dash at the nearest bird.

But Rough'un succeeded no better than Pompey and his brethren, for the
vultures would take a few hops, spread their wings, and float up in the
air, as the dog rushed under them, leaving him barking most furiously at
the birds as they went.

"Ah, they're avil-looking birruds, thim vultures," said Dinny, "and we'd
never suffer 'em in ould Oireland. Shure, Saint Pathrick would have
dhruv out ivery mother's son of 'em before he'd set his foot in the
counthry. They're avil-looking bastes. I'll be asking the masther to
lind me a gun, and I'll go out shooting of 'em."

"I don't think father will let you, Dinny," replied Dick. "They're very
useful in their way, and clear off all the foul decaying carcases of the
animals that die on the plains."

"Shure and the flies would do all that a dale nater and claner," cried
Dinny. "And, oh, murther, Masther Dick, but it's hard work to keep the
flies off the mate out here. They come in shwarms, and I'm doing
nothing all day but kill 'em. I say, Masther Dick, dear, whin are we
going back?"

"Going back?" cried Dick. "I don't know. Not yet for months, I hope."

"Oh, murther, an' what'll become of us all? Sure we're never going near
any more of thim rivers, Masther Dick?"