The object of his desire hung dripping over the glowing coals. A small porker, bound to an iron rod that slowly turned him over and over, had reached a shade of delicious, golden brown.
“And barbecued pork is the thing I am fondest of.” Stew’s whisper betrayed real agony.
“We’ll barbecue one some time,” was Jack’s only reply. He had been studying the group intently. They were a motley throng. There were big, dark-skinned men in the group who could have placed him across a knee and broken his back. There were dark-eyed, laughing children that anyone could love.
The men, for the most part, wore cotton trousers. Some of the women wore dresses, some only cotton skirts, and some were in native grass skirts.
“There’s that tall, slim one turning the roast,” Jack whispered.
“What tall, slim one?” Stew replied.
“Oh! I didn’t tell you!” Jack laughed softly. “I’ve seen her before.”
“You would!” Stew mocked.
Over near one corner of the fire two dusky maidens were baking some sort of cakes and stacking them in appetizing piles. The roasting of the porker appeared to have been left to the tall, slim girl. She turned and twisted it, prodded it with a huge fork, then turned it again. At last, taking up a large knife, she cut off a slice, held it up, and blew on it to cool it.
At once from the throng rose an expectant murmur. Stew joined in.