by means of flint, steel, and tinder-box—that we are made to need such a lot o’ grub. If we could only get on like the sarpints, now, wot can breakfast on a rabbit, and then wait a month or two for dinner! Ain’t it cur’ous?”
Dick admitted that and blew the fire into a blaze.
Here Henri uttered a cry of consternation.
“De—grub—him—be—forgat!”
There was a look of blank horror, and then a burst of laughter from Dick Varley. “Well, well,” cried he, “we’ve got lots o’ tea an’ sugar, an’ some flour; we can git on wi’ that till we shoot another buffalo, or a—ha!”
Dick observed a wild turkey stalking among the willows as he spoke. It was fully a hundred yards off, and only its head was seen above the leaves. But Dick had driven the nail often, he aimed at the bird’s eye and cut its head off. “Fetch it, Crusoe.”
In three minutes it was at Dick’s feet, and in five minutes more it was in the pot.
As this unexpected supply made up for the loss of the meat which Henri had forgotten at their last halting-place, their equanimity was restored; and while the meal was in preparation Dick shouldered his rifle and went into the bush to try for another turkey. He did not get one, however, but he shot a couple of prairie hens, which are excellent eating. Moreover, he found a large quantity of wild grapes and plums. These were unfortunately not ripe, but Dick resolved to try a new dish, so he stuffed the breast of his coat full of them.
After the pot was emptied, Dick washed it out, and put a little clean water in it. Then he poured some flour in, and stirred it well. While this was heating, he squeezed the sour grapes and plums into what Joe called a “mush,” mixed it with a spoonful of sugar, and emptied it into the pot. He also skimmed a quantity of the fat from the remains of the turkey soup and added that to the mess, which he stirred with earnest diligence till it boiled down into a sort of thick porridge.
“D’ye think it’ll be good?” asked Joe gravely; “I’ve me doubts of it.”
“We’ll see.—Hold the tin dish, Henri.”
“Take care of de fingers. Ha! it looks magnifique.”
The first spoonful produced an expression on Henri’s face that needed not to be interpreted. It was as sour as vinegar.
