“My dear Bel, I get so hungry that I would eat anything now. But they may taste good. Wolf’s a kind of dog; they eat dog in China, and I’ve heard that the bargees do so on the Thames.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember the chaff at Oxford—the fellows asking the bargees, ‘Who ate puppy pie under Marlow Bridge?’”
“There it is again.”
“Then I’ll take the guns out of the cases if they come nearer. They’ll be able to walk up the snow slope right on to the roof.”
But the sounds died away, and Dallas opened a tin and took out a couple of pieces of roughly made damper, whose crust was plentifully marked with wood ashes.
“I can’t eat,” said Abel.
“I can, and I’ll set you an example. Sorry there is no Strasburg pie or other delicacy to tempt you; and the cook is out, or she should grill you some grouse.”
Abel sat nursing his piece of unappetising bread, while Dallas rapidly disposed of his, the smaller piece.
They had been sitting in silence for some time, with Dallas gazing wistfully at his companion.