“Supper!” repeated the tourist with sudden animation. “It is the one thing I have been longing for. I haven’t eaten a particle of food since morning, and didn’t know where to find any, though my pocket is full of money.”
“I can’t offer you anything very inviting,” said Gerald, as he led the way into the cabin. “I have some fish and potatoes, bread and coffee, but I have neither milk nor butter.”
“Don’t apologize, my young friend,” interposed the Englishman. “It is a feast fit for the gods. I have an appetite that will make anything palatable. But where do you get your bread? There can’t be any bakers’ shops in this wilderness.”
“There are not. I make my own bread.”
“You don’t say so! And upon my word it is delicious.”
“It is fortunate that you are hungry,” said Gerald with a smile.
“No, ’pon honor, it isn’t that. It is really better than I often eat at hotels. You really have talent as a cook.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t care for cooking, but have taken it up from necessity.”
The tourist hadn’t exaggerated his appetite. He ate so heartily that when the meal was concluded there wasn’t a crumb left. All the dishes were empty.