The chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the slightest notice.
“Arrah! howld yer tongue, Paul,” said Flinders, who made so much use of his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of two; “why d’ye disturb his majesty? Don’t ye see that he’s meditatin’, or suthin’ o’ that sort—maybe about his forefathers?”
“Well, well, I hope his after mothers won’t have many sulky ones like him,” returned Paul, rather crossly. “It’s quite impossible to cut up a steak wi’ one hand, so here goes i’ the next best fashion.”
He took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a mouthful with his teeth, when Betty came to the rescue.
“Stay, father; I’ll cut it into little bits for you if Unaco will kindly lend me his scalping-knife.”
Without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from its sheath and handed it to Betty, who at once, using a piece of sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father’s portion into manageable lumps.
“That’s not a bad notion,” said Fred. “Perhaps you’ll do the same for me, Betty.”
“With pleasure, Mr Westly.”
“Ah, now, av it wouldn’t be axin’ too much, might I make so bowld—”
Flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before the Rose of Oregon with a significant smile.