“How much will you sell a couple for?” inquired the enthusiast.
The Virginian looked at him with friendly surprise. “Why, help yourself! We're all together yet awhile. Help yourselves,” he repeated, to Trampas and his followers. These hung back a moment, then, with a slinking motion, set the cheese upon the earth and came forward nearer the fire to receive some supper.
“It won't scarcely be Delmonico style,” said the Virginian to the passengers, “nor yet Saynt Augustine.” He meant the great Augustin, the traditional chef of Philadelphia, whose history I had sketched for him at Colonel Cyrus Jones's eating palace.
Scipio now officiated. His frying-pan was busy, and prosperous odors rose from it.
“Run for a bucket of fresh water, Shorty,” the Virginian continued, beginning his meal. “Colonel, yu' cook pretty near good. If yu' had sold 'em as advertised, yu'd have cert'nly made a name.”
Several were now eating with satisfaction, but not Scipio. It was all that he could do to cook straight. The whole man seemed to glisten. His eye was shut to a slit once more, while the innocent passengers thankfully swallowed.
“Now, you see, you have made some money,” began the Virginian to the native who had helped him get the frogs.
“Bet your life!” exclaimed the man. “Divvy, won't you?” And he held out half his gains.
“Keep 'em,” returned the Southerner. “I reckon we're square. But I expaict they'll not equal Delmonico's, seh?” he said to a passenger.
“Don't trust the judgment of a man as hungry as I am!” exclaimed the traveller, with a laugh. And he turned to his fellow-travellers. “Did you ever enjoy supper at Delmonico's more than this?”