Had Dick eaten none at all he would have uncomplainingly disposed of the whole.

Jack the Giant-Killer's feats were nothing to his; and when at last the bowl was empty, he stopped short like a machine from which the steam had been suddenly cut off, and laid down his buffalo horn-spoon _without_ a sigh.
Dick sighed, though with relief and gratitude, when his bowl was empty.
"I hope I may never have to do it again," said Joe that night as they wended their way back to the chief's tent after supper.

"I wouldn't be fit for anything for a week arter it." Dick could only laugh, for any allusion to the feast instantly brought back that owl-like gourmand to whom he was so deeply indebted.
Henri groaned.

"Oh! mes boy, I am speechless! I am ready for bust! Oui--hah! I veesh it vas to-morrow." Many a time that night did Henri "veesh it vas to-morrow," as he lay helpless on his back, looking up through the roof of the chief's tent at the stars, and listening enviously to the plethoric snoring of Joe Blunt.
He was entertained, however, during those waking hours with a serenade such as few civilized ears ever listen to.

This was nothing else than a vocal concert performed by all the dogs of the village, and as they amounted to nearly two thousand the orchestra was a pretty full one.
These wretches howled as if they had all gone mad.