“Ditto,” remarked Big Waller with a nod; to which old Redhand replied with a chuckle.
“An’ who be go to vatch, tink you?” inquired Gibault, as they all returned to the camp. “Perhaps de Injuns look out for us—vat den?”
“Ah ye may well ask that, Gibault,” said Redhand; “the fact is I’ve been thinkin’ that now we’re drawin’ near to enemies we must begin to keep better watch at night, and to burn small fires o’ dry wood, lest the smoke should tell a tale upon us.”
“Oh, don’t talk bam, old feller,” said Waller; “I guess we’ll have watchin’ enough w’en we gits into the mountains. Let’s take it easy here.”
“We’ll have one good blow out to-night, anyhow,” cried March Marston, heaving a fresh pile of logs on the already roaring fire. “Now, Mr Bertram, do give up your scratchin’ to-night, and let’s see what you can do in the eatin’ way. I’m sure you’ve fasted long enough, at least for the good o’ your health.”
The poor artist had indeed fasted long enough to give to his naturally thin and lank figure a thread-papery appearance that might have suggested the idea that he was evaporating. He smiled good-humouredly when March Marston, who had now become rather familiar with him, shut up his sketch-book and set him forcibly down before the fire, all round which steaks and hunks of meat were roasting and grilling, and sending forth an odour that would have rendered less hungry men impatient of delay. But they had not to wait long. Each man sat before his respective steak or hunk, gazing eagerly, as, skewered on the end of a splinter of wood, his supper roasted hissingly. When the side next the fire was partially cooked, he turned it round and fell to work upon that while the other side was roasting—thus the cooking and the eating went on together.
After a considerable time symptoms of satiety began to appear, in the shape of an occasional remark. Soon Bounce uttered a deep sigh, and announced his belief that, having taken the edge off his appetite, it was time to begin with the marrow-bones. Thereupon, with the marrow-bones he began, and his example was quickly followed by his companions. There was a business-like steadiness of purpose in the way in which that meal was eaten, and in the whole of the procedure connected with it, that would have been highly diverting to a disinterested spectator.
When the feast was concluded, the pipes made their appearance as a matter of course; and when these were lighted, and in full blast, the trappers found leisure to look round upon each other’s faces with expressions of benignity.
“Dat be a monstrobolly goot supper,” remarked Gibault Noir. Gibault spoke with an effort. It was quite plain that moderation was a virtue that he did not possess in a high degree—at least, not on the present occasion.
“You’ll need a ‘monstrobolly’ good sleep arter it,” observed Bounce quietly.