We tell you what it is, reader: it’s of no use at all to go on writing “as if,” when we tell you what Crusoe said. If there is any language in eyes whatever—if there is language in a tail, in a cocked ear, in a mobile eyebrow, in the point of a canine nose; if there is language in any terrestrial thing at all, apart from that which flows from the tongue—then Crusoe spoke. Do we not speak at this moment to you? And if so, then tell me wherein lies a difference between a written letter and a given sign?
Yes, Crusoe spoke. He said to Dick as plain as dog could say it, slowly and emphatically, “That’s my opinion precisely, Dick. You’re the dearest, jolliest fellow that ever walked on two legs, you are; and whatever’s your opinion is mine, no matter how absurd it may be.”
Dick evidently understood him perfectly, for he laughed as he looked at him and patted him on the head, and called him a “funny dog.” Then he continued his discourse:—“Yes, pup, we’ll make our camp here for a long bit, old dog, in this beautiful plain. We’ll make a wigwam to sleep in, you and I, jist in yon clump o’ trees, not a stone’s-throw to our right, where we’ll have a run o’ pure water beside us, and be near our buffalo at the same time. For, ye see, we’ll need to watch him lest the wolves take a notion to eat him. That’ll be your duty, pup. Then I’ll skin him when I get strong enough, which’ll be in a day or two, I hope, and we’ll put one-half of the skin below us and t’other half above us i’ the camp, an’ sleep, an’ eat, an’ take it easy for a week or two—won’t we, pup?”
“Hoora-a-a-y!” shouted Crusoe, with a wag of his tail, that no human arm with hat, or kerchief ever equalled.
Poor Dick Varley! He smiled to think how earnestly he had been talking to the dog; but he did not cease to do it, for although he entered into discourses the drift of which Crusoe’s limited education did not permit him to follow, he found comfort in hearing his own voice, and in knowing that it fell pleasantly on another ear.
Our hero now set about his preparations as vigorously as he could. He cut out the buffalo’s tongue—a matter of great difficulty to one in his weak state—and carried it to a pleasant spot near to the stream, where the turf was level and green. Here he resolved to make his camp.
His first care was to select a bush whose branches were long enough to form a canopy over his head when bent, and the ends thrust into the ground. The completing
