Dexter had a whiff just then, and they certainly did smell tempting to a hungry boy; but he made up his mind to partake only of bread and butter, and kept to his determination for quite five minutes after Bob had declared the cookery complete, and picked the tiny lobsters out of the hot ashes with his burnt stick.
“They’re too hot to touch yet,” he said. “Wait a bit and I’ll show you. Cut the bread.”
Dexter obeyed with alacrity, and was soon feasting away on what might very well be called “Boy’s Delight,” the honest bread and butter which has helped to build up our stalwart race.
Bob helped himself to a piece of bread, spread it thickly with butter, and, withdrawing a little way from the fire, hooked a hot cray-fish to his side, calmly picking out the largest; and as soon as he could handle it he treated it as if it were a gigantic shrimp, dividing the shell in the middle by pulling, and holding up the delicate hot tail, which drew easily from its armour-like case.
“Only wants a bit of salt,” he cried, smacking his lips over the little bonne bouche, and then proceeding to pick out the contents of the claws, and as much of the body as he deemed good to eat.
Dexter looked on with a feeling of disgust, while Bob laughed at him, and finished four of the cray-fish, throwing the shells over his shoulder towards the river.
Then Dexter picked up one, drew off the shell, smelt it, tasted it, and five minutes later he was as busy as Bob, though when they finished the whole cooking he was seven fish behind.
“Ain’t they ’lishus?” cried Bob.
“Yes,” said Dexter, unconsciously repeating his companion’s first remark, “only want a bit of salt.”