“I ken naebody could hae cookit deer meat efer so petter as tat,” he said as he worked away, thoroughly enjoying his picnic meal till the last scrap was cleaned off, and then he cracked the bone with the back of his knife, and managed to get out a good deal of the marrow.
“She’s fine, though she is mickle,” he said; and then he sighed and looked hard at the pieces of the deer set aside for the absent ones—a shabby, raggedly cut lot, though of course of delicious meat.
Watty stretched his eyes away and had a look round.
“They dinna come pack,” he said, “and it’s chust wasting a bonnie bit fire.”
There was a pause.
“She’d petter pit on some mair coal,” muttered Watty; and he picked up a weather-worn lump, but dropped it again.
“It’s chust spoiling a gude fire to put on mair coal,” he said softly, with his face all wrinkles, “and a’ tat meat waiting.”
He had another look round.
“She’s ferry hungry,” he muttered; “and she’ll chust hae ane wee pit. The captain said he couldna eat. She can.”
He made a dart at the biggest piece, laid it on the glowing coal, seasoned it as before, waited till it was done on one side, and then picked it up cleverly on the point of his knife and turned it, seasoned this side also, and replaced his box.