“Oh, build up the fire! I’m simply ravenous!” she exclaimed, between impatience and delight.
Winthrope was hardly less keen; yet his hunger did not altogether blunt his curiosity.
“I say, Blake,” he inquired, “where did you get the meat?”
“Stow it, Win, my boy. This ain’t a packing house. The stuff may be tough, but it’s not–er–the other thing. Here you are, Miss Jenny. Chew it off the stick.”
Though Winthrope had his suspicions, he took the piece of half-burned flesh which Blake handed him in turn, and fell to eating without further question. As Blake had surmised, the roast proved far other than tender. Hunger, however, lent it a most appetizing flavor. The repast ended when there was nothing left to devour. Blake threw away his empty spit, and rose to stretch. He waited for Miss Leslie to swallow her last mouthful, and then began to chuckle.
“What’s the joke?” asked Winthrope.
Blake looked at him solemnly.
“Well now, that was downright mean of me,” he drawled; “after robbing them, to laugh at it!”
“Robbing who?”
“The buzzards.”