“Mine isn’t very nice,” said Dexter.
“Not nice? Well, you are a chap to grumble! I give you the best one, because this here one had its tail burnt off, and now you ain’t satisfied.”
“But it tastes bitter, and as if it wants some bread and salt.”
“Well, we ain’t got any, have we? Can’t yer wait?”
“Yes,” said Dexter; “but it’s so full of bones.”
“So are you full of bones. Go on, mate. Why, I’m half done.”
Dexter did go on, wondering in his own mind whether his companion’s fish was as unpleasant and coarse eating as the one he discussed, giving him credit the while for his disinterestedness, he being in happy ignorance of the comparative merits of fresh-water fish when cooked; and therefore he struggled with his miserable, watery, insipid, bony, ill-cooked chub, while Bob picked the fat flakes off the vertebra of his juicy trout.
“Wish we’d got some more,” said Bob, as he licked his fingers, and then wiped his knife-blade on the leg of his trousers.
“I don’t,” thought Dexter; but he was silent, and busy picking out the thin sharp bones which filled his fish.
“Tell you what,” said Bob, “we’ll— Look out!”