“I am, Ned.”
“That you are not, sir. I’m just the same as you, but it’s only excitement, and what any one would feel. Now then they’ve gone down and blocked our road, so we must go up another way. Just give ’em another five minutes, and then we’ll go and get our ’taters.”
The ashes were soon being raked aside, and the invaluable potatoes about to be uncovered, when Ned sniffed.
“I say, Mr Jack, sir, they smell good.”
“Why, what’s that, Ned?” cried Jack, pointing through the gloom at something long and stiff curled up into a knot.
“That, sir? Well, I am stunned. Why, it’s one of they snakes, sir, got closer in to get warm, and he overdid it. He’s cooked; and just you smell, sir.”
“Ugh! throw it away.”
“But it smells ’licious, sir. It does really.”
“It makes me feel sick, Ned—the idea’s horrible. Why it will have spoiled all the potatoes.”
“Don’t make me feel sick, sir; makes me feel hungry. You’ve no idea how good it smells.”