Not the least attention did the imperturbable cook pay to the murmurings of those around. He turned the meat around as slowly and carefully as ever, and when it had reached the point when Lancaster declared it was “spoiled” he removed it from its perches, served it into three equal slices, and announced that it was ready.
So it proved—rich, steamy, juicy and tender, so that it fairly melted in their mouths. No sooner did it touch their palates, than they inwardly thanked the cook for resisting their importunities, and furnishing them with such a choice morsel. They thanked him inwardly, we say, but, as might be expected, each took particular good care to say nothing about it.
But Harling saw his advantage and followed it up.
“You’re a couple of purty pups, aint you? Don’t know what’s best for you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d both starve to death.”
“Get out!” replied Lancaster, “let other people brag up your cooking; don’t do it yourself.”
“There’s no one in this crowd got gratitude to thank me after I’ve crammed their mouths for them.”
“Then I wouldn’t do it myself,” laughed Fred Wainwright.
“Yes, I shall too, for it deserves it, and it’s time you learned to say so.”
“Hang it,” cried Lancaster, pretending to have great difficulty in tearing the meat asunder; “if this piece hadn’t been cooked so long, it would be fit for a white man to eat, but as it is, it is enough to tear my teeth out.”
“’Cause you’re making such a pig of yourself. Try and eat like a civilized being, and you’ll find it tender enough for an infant.”