“Poor wretch!” exclaimed Frank, as the man advanced slowly with timid steps, while his large sunken eyes absolutely glared at the broken meat which lay scattered about.
“Give him von morsel,” suggested Meyer.
“Give him a bullet in his dirty carcase,” growled Bradling.
The Indian stopped when within ten paces of the fire and grinned horribly.
“Here, stop up your ghastly mouth wi’ that,” cried Jeffson, tossing a lump of salt-pork towards him.
He caught it with the dexterity of a monkey, and, squatting down on the trunk of a fallen tree, devoured it with the ravenous ferocity of a famishing hyena. The piece of pork would have been a sufficient meal for any ordinary man, but it quickly vanished down the throat of the savage, who licked his fingers, and, with eyes which required no tongue to interpret their meaning, asked for more!
“Look out!” cried Joe Graddy, tossing him a sea biscuit as one throws a quoit.
The Indian caught it deftly; crash went his powerful teeth into the hard mass, and in an incredibly short time it was—with the pork!
The whole party were so highly amused by this, that they “went in,” as Jeffson said, “for an evening’s entertainment.” One tossed the poor man a cut of ham, another a slice of pork, a third a mass of bread, and so they continued to ply him with victuals, determined to test his powers to the uttermost.
“Try another bit of pork,” said Douglas, laughing, as he threw him a cut as large as the first; “you’ve finished all the cooked meat now.”