Not until he had half a melon in hand did Cal begin.
“There’s one of the finest rice plantations on all this coast about a mile above here. Or rather, the plantation house is there. As for the plantation itself, we’re sitting on it now. It belongs to Colonel Huguenin, and of course the house is closed in summer.”
“Why?” interrupted Dick, whose thirst for information concerning southern customs was insatiable.
“Do you really want me to interrupt my story of ‘How Cal Went Foraging’ in order to answer your interjected inquiry? If I must talk it’s all one to me what I talk about. So make your choice.”
“Go on and tell us of the foraging. The other thing can wait.”
“Well, then; I happened to know of this plantation. I’ve bivouacked on the shores of this bay before, and when I turned the Hunkydory’s nose in this direction I was impelled by an intelligent purpose. I had alluring visions of the things I could buy from the negroes up there at the quarters.”
“Why didn’t you tell us then instead of getting off all that rigmarole about rowing against the tide and the rest of it?” asked Larry, not with irritation, but with a laugh, for the cantaloupe he was eating and the smell of the sweet potatoes roasting in the ashes had put him and the others into an entirely peaceful and contented frame of mind.
“I never like to raise hopes,” answered Cal, “that I cannot certainly fulfill. Performance is better than promises—as much better as the supper we are about to eat is better than a printed bill of fare. Wonder how the potatoes are coming on?”
With that he dug one of the yams out of the ashes, examined it, and put it back, saying: