“Of course we shall.”
“Everybody keeps on about the war,” said Mark. “They’re always at me.”
“I found these buttons,” said Bevis; “I had forgotten them.”
He put the little mushrooms, stems upwards, on some embers which had fallen apart from the main fire. The branches as they burned became white directly, coated over with a film of ash, so that except just in the centre they did not look red, though glowing with heat under the white layer. Even the flames were but just visible in the brilliant sunshine, and were paler in colour than those of the hearth. Now and then the thin column of grey smoke, rising straight up out of the hollow, was puffed aside at its summit by the light air wandering over the field. As the butterflies came over the edge of the hollow into the heated atmosphere, they fluttered up high to escape it.
“I’m sure it’s done,” said Mark, drawing the stick away from the fire. The bird was brown and burnt in one place, so they determined to eat it and not spoil it by over-roasting. When Bevis began to carve it with his pocket-knife he found one leg quite raw, the wings were burnt, but there was a part of the breast and the other leg fairly well cooked. These they ate, little pieces at a time, slowly, and in silence, for it was proper to like it. But they did not pick the bones clean.
“No salt,” said Mark, putting down the piece he had in his hand.
“No bread,” said Bevis, flinging the leg away.
“We don’t do it right somehow,” said Mark. “It takes such a long time to learn to be savages.”
“Years,” said Bevis, picking a mushroom from the embers, it burned his fingers and he had to wait till it was cooler. The mushrooms were better, their cups held some of the juice as they cooked, retaining the sweet flavour. They were so small, they were but a bite each.
“I am thirsty,” said Mark. Bevis was the same, so they went down towards the water. Mark began to run down the slope, when Bevis suddenly remembered.