“Eat a pear! Vy, dat ish worser dan to eat vrog,” said Jan.
“No, not so bad,” said Ben, “only the frogs taste the best. I judge you can’t beat them very easy.”
“All right,” said Jan. “I eats any t’ing now; I eat a pear. I says nottings. Pring him vere Jule cook him, unt py tam, I eat him. Dat’s all.”
“We’ll teach ye something about frontier life by the time we git done with ye,” said Ben. “I ruther guess thet ye will see the time when a baked Injun won’t be a bad dish fer ye.”
“Paked Injun! Vat; you eat dem?”
“I reckon ther’ pooty good fodder too, when you ain’t got nothin’ else to feed on,” replied Ben, coolly.
“I dells you vat,” said Jan, getting angry again, “ven I cooms to dis coontry I dinks it must be goot coontry, but now I dinks it is no more petter ash a Feejee Island. I vill not eat paked Injun. ’Tish no good; dat ish vat I dinks.”
“Ye don’t know any thing about it,” said Ben. “After ye’v’ been on the prairie a while ye will git over thet and not be half so squeamish. Jest lose yer sculp onc’t, and ye’ll be ready to eat an Injun raw.”
“Stop dat. I veel very pad. I dinks dere is no Injun here.”
“Mebbe not. Mebbe the prairie down thar ain’t the’r old stamping-ground, and mebbe it is. Anyhow, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll bet ye my fust beaver ag’in’ yours thet we see Injuns in less then a week.”