Willie Hercus and I were finished first, and we carefully folded up
our perfect sealskin. But Tom, who was less accustomed to the work,
fumbled away awkwardly, muttering to himself when his sharp blade
cut into the skin instead of neatly parting it from the body.
As we sat on a rock waiting for our companions, Selta went sniffing
about on her own account and rooting into the far corners of the
old cave. She at length found her way to the dead hen harrier, as
it lay on a slab of flagstone. Hercus called her off as she put her
nose too closely to the bird. But Selta was following her
instincts; for, in turning the bird with her nose, she disturbed a
small rat which was coolly making its meal there. I ran to examine
the damage done to the hawk (for I was anxious to give the bird
uninjured to Mr. Drever), while Willie followed the dog into the
crevice where she had chased the rat. I found the harrier was not
much damaged; a few feathers were bitten out and a little of the
skin was broken, that was all.
I put my harpoon and stick through the string that secured the
bird's legs and slung it over my shoulder, gathered up our
sealskin, and went to hurry up Tom and Robbie, for the tide was
rising and we had a long journey before us. Tom had just cut the
last of the skin from the seal's head, and when he had folded it
up, the three of us began our walk towards the further shore of the
bay, expecting Hercus to follow with the dog.
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