“You’ll have to let him go this time, for he must help me,” he said. “We’ll make him work all the harder to pay for what he’s done.”
Once more over the smoky fire and amid the flying ashes Bobby labored for the good of others, working out the punishment for his sin.
The kettle of potatoes was taken from the fire; and while Bobby picked out the pieces—for they had boiled until they were discouraged, and had burst their skins—arranging them on two shingles, Tim took the well-blackened remains of poor Biddy from the spit, laying them on a short bit of board in great triumph.
Then the hungry party gathered around the place which represented the table, and waited impatiently to be served.
Bill Thompson, with his hunting-knife, proceeded to carve the fowl, which was a work of some time, owing to its exceeding toughness.
In order to show proper respect for the office he held, Bill waited on Captain Jimmy first, and that young gentleman did not waste much time before he began to eat.
The roast was quite raw inside, even though it was burnt outside, but that, in Captain Jimmy’s hungry condition, made very little difference. He cut off the first mouthful and began to eat in a ravenous manner, when suddenly he stopped, looking very queer.
“What is the matter?” asked Tim, anxiously, quick to notice the change in the captain’s face.
“I dunno,” said Jim; “but it tastes kind o’ funny.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t used to hen,” said Bill, almost savagely, not pleased that any one should find fault with his fowl.