“Do you hear that?” he said, turning to me. “Why, I’ve cooked bacon and bloaters at home hundreds of times.”
“Good!” cried Gunson. “Then you shall cook a bit here. There will not be any bloaters, but as much salmon as you like to grill.”
“Salmon?” said Esau, pausing in the act of paring off some bacon rind.
“Yes; salmon. The rivers are so full of them here sometimes, that they crowd one another out on to the shore.”
Esau gave him a look, and then went on preparing the bacon, afterwards setting it to frizzle over the clear fire.
“I must rout up some basins,” said Gunson, rising. “I don’t suppose we shall get any tea-cups and saucers here.”
He went out of the rough room, and left us together just as the kettle began to sing, and the bacon to send out an appetising odour.
“Well,” said Esau, “that don’t smell bad. Seems to make one feel not quite so mizzable to hear a kettle singing again. I did feel bad a bit back.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes: wretched,” I replied.