I had questioned him, but I was quite as much surprised at hearing an answer, as at the repast of which he was partaking.
I stared hard at him, and he gave me a sidelong look, after which he gave three or four of the snails a thrust with a bit of stick to where they would cook better, took up another, and wriggled it out with the pin.
I was disgusted and half nauseated, but I could not help noticing that the cooked snail did not smell badly, and that instead of being the wet, foaming, slimy thing I was accustomed to see, it looked dried up and firm.
At last, with a horrified look at the young savage, I exclaimed:
“Do you know those are snails?”
“Yes. Have one?”
He answered quite sharply, and I took a step back, for I had not had my breakfast. I was rather disposed to be faint from the effects of my last night’s accident, and the sight of what was going on made me ready to flee, for all at once, after letting his dirty fingers hover for a few moments over the hot stone, he picked up the largest snail, blew it as he threw it from hand to hand because it was hot, and ended by holding it out to me with:
“Got a big pin?”
I shrank away from him with my lip curling, and I uttered a peculiar “Ugh!”
“All right!” he said gruffly. “They’re stunning.”