“We might at least try them,” persisted Miss Leslie.
“How? Raw?”
“I have heard papa tell of roasting corn when he was a boy.”
“That’s so; and roasting-ears are better than boiled. Win, I guess we’ll have a sample of bamboo asparagus à la Les-lee!”
Winthrope took the penknife, and fetched a handful of young sprouts from the bamboo thicket. They were heated over the coals on a grill of green branches, and devoured half raw.
“Say,” mumbled Blake, as he ruminated on the last shoot, “we’re getting on some for this smell hole of a coast: house and chicken ranch, and vegetables in our front yard– We’ve got old Bobbie Crusoe beat, hands down, on the start-off, and he with his shipful of stuff for handicap!”
“Then you believe that the situation looks more hopeful, Mr. Blake?”
“Well, we’ve at least got an extension on our note for a week or two. But I’m not going to coddle you with a lot of lies, Miss Jenny. There’s the fever coming, sure as fate. I may stave it off a while; you and Win, ten to one, will be down in a few days–and not a smell of quinine in our commissary. Then there’ll be dysentery and snakes and wild beasts–No; we’re not out of the woods yet, not by a–considerable.”
“By Jove, Blake,” muttered Winthrope, “I must say, you’re not very encouraging.”