"By gracious!" ejaculated Jonathan; "you don't say so! Then it's a mighty queer language, that's all I've got to say. But speakin' of eatin', I ain't had a decent meal of vittles since I came here."
"I am surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Tarbox. The French have a high reputation for their cookery."
"I can't help that. I haven't lived so mean since I was born."
"Perhaps it is because you don't know the names of the dishes you want."
"Wall, there may be somethin' in that. Why, the first day I p'inted to the first thing in the programme. It was among the pottages. They brought me some thin, watery stuff that would turn a pig sick. Somebody told me it was meant for soup. When my mother made soup, she put potatoes and meat in it, and carrots and turnips. Her soup was satisfying and would stay a feller's stummick. It wa'n't like this thin stuff. It would take a hogshead of it to keep a baby alive till night."
"What else did you get, Mr. Tarbox," asked Frank.
"I looked all through the programme for baked beans, and, would you believe it, they didn't have it at all."
"I believe it is not a French dish."
"Then the French don't know what's good, I can tell 'em that. Folks say they eat frogs, and it stands to reason if they like frogs, and don't like baked beans, they must be an ignorant set. I didn't understand any of the darned names, but I come across pommy de terry, and I thought that might be somethin' solid, so I told the gossoon to bring it. What do you think he brought?"