Ned picked it, up upon the end of his spear.
“They say that things are good if roasted, sir. What do you say—shall we cook him?”
“Ugh! No. Throw the horrible thing away.”
“Yes, sir; off it goes. One wants another day’s starving to eat roast snake.”
He sent the nearly dead creature whirling through the air with a sudden jerk of his spear-handle, and then turned to Jack.
“Now, sir,” he said, “as quick as you can, and then—”
He did not finish his sentence, but threw himself upon his knees again. Jack followed his example, and for about ten minutes they busied themselves getting another load, and then ran to the fireside and emptied all they had into a heap.
“Now then,” cried Ned; “but be careful, sir; they’ll be horribly hot.”
Jack said nothing, but looked on while his companion thrust the still burning wood aside with his spear, then swept off the thick bed of glowing embers, and lastly the hot sand, before turning the potatoes out into a heap on the other side, and spreading them to cool.
“Let ’em be, sir, till we’ve charged the oven again,” cried Ned, and the fight now was harder than ever as they began to throw the fresh batch into the hot pit. But it was done, and the sand swept over them. The glowing embers followed, the wood was piled on, to begin crackling and blazing, and then, and then only, did they fall to.