Just how it was managed I cannot say to-night, as I sit with aching head and write the story of my shame, but in some way we found our original seats.
"Hongry, ain't yo'?" asked Jeff, with what I thought a sardonic look.
"No 'm not 'ung'y."
"Yes yo' air—hongry fur news! Huh? He! He! He!"
I swallowed, and fixed on him a stony stare. He was going to relent.
"I's hongry onct—belly hongry—'n' yo' give me good grub. Now yo're hongry—heart hongry—'n' I'm a-goin' to fill yo' plum' up!"
I essayed to cross my knees to assure myself that I was actually all right, but something went wrong with my lifted leg. It fell short, slid down my other shin, and lodged on the instep in a most unique twist. I let it remain. Bemused as I was almost to the point of helplessness, I yet knew that the Satyr had far greater control of his faculties than myself, despite the enormous quantity of poison he had consumed. I could listen acutely, however, if my speech was difficult.
"Go on," I encouraged, doing the two monosyllables without a hitch.
"Th' gal lied to th' pries' 'n' th' pries' tol' Granny, didn't he?"
This abrupt and startling declaration almost dazed me.