“When in Rome, you know—” smiled Osceola. “Help yourselves—take some, Bill, and pass it on. If you must have knife and fork and plate, they can be produced, but when I am with my people I like to conform to their customs. Hope you don’t mind.”
“The community spoon for me, old top,” and Bill reached for it. “Is this the national dish?”
“I reckon so. It’s a meat stew thickened with vegetables and meal. You ought to find it pretty good.”
“I do,” sighed Bill, blowing on a piece of hot meat. “This is the best grub I’ve tasted for a month of Sundays.”
“An’ could you all please hurry up an’ pass dat spoon,” Sam broke in eagerly. “My mouf sure am waterin’ for dat stew and my stummick he say ‘hasten, brother, hasten’!”
All three enjoyed the feast immensely and it is to be feared that as the stew grew cooler, fingers were quite as often in use as the common spoon. Although it was still broad daylight when they found the bottom of the pot, they turned in, on the table, and slept like logs, rolled up in blankets, until morning.
The early sun came streaming in through the open front of Osceola’s house. It shone in Bill’s face and woke him. He stretched, yawned and sat up. The young chief and Sam were going through the same motions at opposite ends of the table.
“Morning, men!” he saluted them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Am I still dreaming, Osceola, or has your village grown during the night? There seem to be three or four times as many people around.”
The chief swung off his table bed. “There are probably five times as many,” he answered. “The villages of my people are small, but there are many of them. Last night, while we slept, signal fires flashed the news of my return. Come along, and let’s get a wash before breakfast. Afterward, there will be a big pow-wow. I am going to put my plan up to the warriors. You can do likewise.”
“But I can’t speak Seminole,” Bill reminded him as they started toward the shore.