They were laughing very loud in there, these three Americans—three powerful, sun-scorched young men, very much at their ease around the table, draining the red Bordeaux by goblets, plying knife and fork with joyous and undiminished vigour.
The tall one with the crisp hair and clear, grayish eyes—he of the three chickens—was already achieving the third—a crisply browned bird, fresh from the spit, fragrant and smoking hot. At intervals he buttered great slices of rye bread, or disposed of an entire young potato, washing it down with a goblet of red wine, but always he returned to the rich roasted fowl which he held, still impaled upon its spit, and which he carved[pg 172] as he ate, wings, legs, breast falling in steaming flakes under his skillful knife blade.
Sticky Smith finally pushed aside his drained glass and surveyed an empty plate frankly and regretfully, unable to continue. He said:
"I'm going to bed and I'm going to sleep twenty-four hours. After that I'm going to eat for twenty-four more hours, and then I'll be in good shape. Bong soir."
"Aw, stick around with the push!" remonstrated Kid Glenn thickly, impaling another potato upon his fork and gesticulating with it.
Smith gazed with surfeited but hopeless envy upon Burley's magnificent work with knife and fork, saw him crack a seventh bottle of Bordeaux, watched him empty the first goblet.
But even Glenn's eyes began to dull in spite of himself, his head nodded mechanically at every mouthful achieved.
"I gotta call it off, Jack," he yawned. "Stick and I need the sleep if you don't. So here's where we quit——"
"Let me tell you about that girl," began Burley. "I never saw a prettier—" But[pg 173] Glenn had appetite neither for food nor romance:
"Say, listen. Have a heart, Jack! We need the sleep!"