The lad drew nearer. He carried a long cane fishing-rod and had a canvas wallet slung at his back. He wore an old army tunic on which was sewn the yellow ribband of the military medal. He also limped badly. His age was about that of Hugh, and his face was olive tinted and bold featured.
“How is the fishing?”
“Not bad, monsieur. A little too clear. Still, look....”
Opening his satchel he showed Hugh four fine trout. Suddenly Hugh remembered that he was hungry.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve walked from Cassamozza, and I’ve forgotten to bring anything to eat. I’m dying of hunger. I suppose it wouldn’t be possible to cook these?”
“Nothing easier, monsieur. I generally cook a fish or two for lunch. See....”
He took from his wallet a small frying-pan and a bottle of olive oil.
“Already you have a fire made. We will cook these in no time, and you will see how nice they will be.”
He soon had the fish simmering on the fire. He produced a piece of coarse bread and even some salt. When the fishes were cooked Hugh laid them on a flat stone. He ate with his hands, stripping the bones with his fingers. What matter! There was lots of water to wash in afterwards, all the Golo a giant finger-bowl at his feet. He had never tasted fish quite so delicious.
“There! I feel better,” he said at last. “Now for a good drink at the river and a smoke.”