"I have it!" he cried; "it's the blood of the sperm-whale that's
causing this."
"Arrah, how the blazes cud the blood av all the whales in Ireland make
thim shupayriour animals set as if the birds were foreninst them?"
demanded Billy, his arms akimbo.
"I will explain," said Simpson. "Last autumn I was up whaling off the
coast of Greenland. We struck a fine fish; and after playing him for
three-and-twenty hours, we got him aboard. Just as we were taking the
harpoon out, he made one despairing effort and spurted blood; a few
drops fell upon this coat, just here," pointing to the inside portion
of his right-hand cuff, "and I pledge you my veracity no dog can
withstand it. They invariably point; and I assure you, Smithe, you
could get up a drag hunt by simply walking across country in this
identical coat, built by John Henry Smalpage."
This startling and sensational explanation satisfied me. Not so my
_factotum_, who gave vent in an undertone to such exclamations as
"_Naboclish! Wirra, wirra!_ What does he take us for? Whales, begorra!"
The riddance of the dogs was a grand _coup_ for me. In the event
of having no sport the failure could be easily accounted for, and I
should come off with flying colours.
"I make it a point" observed Simpson, "to shoot as little with dogs as
possible. I like to set my own game, shoot it, and bag it; nor do I
care to be followed by troublesome and often impertinent
self-opinionated game-keepers" (Billy was at this moment engaged in
incarcerating Feltram and Birdlime). "These fellows are always spoilt,
and never know their position."