“This stew is boiled isn’t it?”
“Dat’s right, suh, it am.”
“Well, what I want to know is how you were able to make a stew over the fire without burning the gourd.”
“Dat stew was made in the gourd, jes’ as you say,” he chuckled. “But de gourd warn’t over the fire, Marse Bill.”
“Quit your kidding, Sam—and tell me.”
“I done hung the gourd on a low branch yonder, suh, after I put in the meat an’ water. Nex’ I heated two stones over the fire and when dey was real hot, I dropped dem in the stew. Soon as dey got cool, I put in two mo’ hot stones—”
“And that,” broke in Osceola, “is the oldest method of heating water known to man!”
Bill shook his head. “Well, when we left the workings, I thought I was supposed to run this show,” he said gravely. “Guess I was a bit high-hat about it, too. And now, everywhere I turn, you two teach me something new. I’ve certainly learned my lesson.—Let’s get to work—I can use brawn if not brain!”
There followed a day of strenuous labor for all of them. The top of the log above the long grooves they had cut the afternoon before, was beaten in with the stone hammer. When it was at last removed, Bill took his wooden adze that he had hardened in the fire, and began to scrape the rotten wood from the inner shell of the canoe. Meanwhile Osceola and Sam whittled out two blocks of soft wood wherewith to plug the ends of the open log. These were wedged into place and moss hammered into the seams. Then, thwarts were fitted and the canoe sunk in shallow water to give the seams at bow and stern a chance to swell. After supper, all three busied themselves making paddles.
Next day they were up before dawn and hauled out their canoe. After a night’s submersion, she appeared to be absolutely watertight. At an early hour, they got aboard, with the remains of their slender store of provisions, and pushed out through the saw grass.