“No, massa, me no forgit. Me up in centre ob de night and put ’im in de hole. Wat you call ’im—oben?”
“Ay, oven, that’s it.”
“Yis. Well, me git ’im d’rec’ly.”
“And, I say, hold on,” added Peterkin. “Don’t you suppose I’m going to stand on ceremony with you. Your name’s too long by half. Too many rooroos about it, so I’m going to call you Mak in future, d’ye understand?”
The negro nodded and grinned from ear to ear as he left us. Presently he returned with a huge round, or lump of meat, at which we looked inquisitively. The odour from it was delightful, and the tender, juicy appearance of the meat when Makarooroo, who carved it for us, cut the first slice, was quite appetising to behold.
“What is it?” inquired Peterkin.
“Elephant’s foot,” replied the guide.
“Gammon,” remarked Peterkin.
“It’s true, massa. Don’t you see him’s toe?”
“So it is,” said Jack.