The watchful and apparently famished beasts caught the fish in
mid-air, and there followed a snarling and grinding of teeth and
smashing of bones and frozen flesh that made David shiver. He was half
disgusted. Thoreau might at least have boiled the fish, or thawed them
out. A fish weighing from one and a half to two pounds was each dog's
allotment, and the work--if this feeding process could be called
work--was done. Father Roland watched the dogs, rubbing his hands with
satisfaction. Thoreau was showing his big, white teeth, as if proud of
something.
"Not a bad tooth among them, _mon Pere_," he said. "Not one!"
"Fine--fine--but a little too fat, Thoreau. You're feeding them too well
for dogs out of the traces," replied Father Roland.
David gasped.
"Too _well_!" he exclaimed. "They're half starved, and almost frozen!
Look at the poor devils swallow those fish, ice and all! Why don't you
cook the fish? Why don't you give them some sort of shelter to sleep
in?"
Father Roland and the Frenchman stared at him as if they did not quite
catch his meaning. Then a look of comprehension swept over the
Missioner's face. He chuckled, the chuckle grew, it shook his body, and
he laughed--laughed until the forest flung back the echoes of his
merriment, and even the leathery faces of the Indians crinkled in
sympathy.
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