“Won’t you allow us the use of our fingers?” asked Raoul, speaking to one of the guerilleros.
“No,” replied the man gruffly.
“How do you expect us to eat, then?”
“With your mouths, as brutes should. What else?”
“Thank you, sir; you are very polite.”
“If you don’t choose that, you can leave it alone,” added the Mexican, going out with his companions, and closing the door behind them.
“Thank you, gentlemen!” shouted the Frenchman after them, in a tone of subdued anger. “I won’t please you so much as to leave it alone. By my word!” he continued, “we may be thankful—it’s more than I expected from Yañez—that they’ve given us any. Something’s in the wind.” So saying, the speaker rolled himself on his breast, bringing his head to the dish.
“Och! the mane haythins!” cried Chane, following the example set by his comrade; “to make dacent men ate like brute bastes! Och! murder an’ ouns!”
“Come, Captain; shall we feed?” asked Clayley.
“Go on. Do not wait for me,” I replied.