“You see, that’s what we trappers always do,” explained Roy rather proudly. “You can’t slice pork when it’s frozen solid. I sliced my pork before we left camp this morning.”
By this time the rashers of pork were swimming about in the hot fat like doughnuts in bubbling lard.
“It certainly smells all right,” exclaimed Paul, as the appetizing odor from the frying meat filled the snow cave. “Hurry up and give us a piece.”
Roy made no reply but busied himself stirring the bits of meat with the point of his knife.
“Is the bread ready?” the cook asked, turning to Philip.
The Indian only pointed to the big ball of dough flattened out like a gigantic pancake and ready for the skillet.
There upon Roy seized the handle of his frying pan, shifted the skillet to one side and, resting it on the snow, began to flip the bits of salt pork onto the snow floor.
“Here, what are you doing?” shouted Norman.
“You don’t eat those scraps,” announced Roy positively. “The only good in pork is the fat and the fat’s all in the skillet. We trappers give these scraps to the dogs—only we ain’t got any dogs.”
“Well I’ll be a dog all right,” exclaimed Norman and as fast as Roy flipped the brown rashers out with his knife point Norman and Paul grabbed them up.